Druids of Le Mars

By Greg Severson

In this page-turning young adult fantasy novel, an English colony was established in Le Mars, Iowa, in the late 1800s. It soon became a refuge for Druids trying to escape persecution in Wales, and they formed a High Council of Druids that has magically protected the town ever since...until suddenly losing their eldest member. Since then, they ha

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Feb 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649905819

Greg Severson

Greg Severson is a retired pathologist who is married with one big happy blended family of five children and twelve grandkids. He grew up in Le Mars, Iowa, the town the book is set in, and currently lives in Omaha, Nebraska. He and his wife Deb enjoy traveling, hiking, and skiing, and once in a while she'll even agree to keep him company while he enjoys an occasional cigar. Greg loves the outdoors and all animals, particularly dogs, and has a special place in his heart for his old bulldog, Wendy.

Book preview

Prologue

Thank God I made it to my connection on time! It’s one of the few things I don’t like about living in Omaha. There are hardly any nonstop flights. It’s always a bit of a crapshoot, trying to make your next flight with only a fifty-minute layover. I find the whole process a little nerve racking. But I got lucky this time: I made my gate with five minutes to spare and was even able to score a window seat, so now I’ll be able to look outside and have something to take my mind off these cramped quarters. I’m just finishing up a particularly satisfying trip to Victoria, British Columbia, where I met up with a famous group of astrologers. It’s always refreshing when I meet new people who share interests similar to mine. Now that I’m finally in my seat, I can sit back, relax, and enjoy some well-deserved peace and quiet during the flight home.

As the plane reaches its cruising altitude of thirty-two thousand feet, I find myself gazing out over the landscape below-snow-covered mountains stretching out as far as the eye can see-and have to shake my head. I’m sixty-six years old and at the point in my life where I’m ready to retire. How did I get to this place in my life so fast? I guess it’s true what they say: time passes by so fast; life is like a dream. It doesn’t seem so long ago that after surviving a most unusual childhood, I was able to escape my little town to enroll at the University of Iowa. I had dreams back then of becoming a history professor or maybe even an archeologist, but Dad was relentless in his desire for me to attend medical school. So, after spending two years working on a history major and loving every minute of it, I decided to switch my major over to premed and by some miracle, managed to get accepted into the class of ‘81. But after my third year of med school, I was growing concerned because I still didn’t have a clear idea of what specialty I wanted to pursue. Lucky for me, I was acquainted with one of our local physicians who also happened to serve as the region’s medical examiner, and she gave me an excellent piece of advice. Give pathology a try. So that’s just what I did. I’m still a little surprised at how much I ended up loving the specialty, especially all the problem solving it entailed. But after thirty-five years, I’m ready to move on and let someone else take my spot.

Although I’ve always felt extremely lucky to stumble across pathology for a career, I have to admit it’s never been a true passion. After family, my true love is the pursuit of magic. Not parlor magic, like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but powerful magic that was practiced in times past. My friends and colleagues would take me for a total kook if they ever found out, but I’m being serious. You see, when I was just a kid, true magic was dying out in the world. Very few people practiced it anymore or believed it even existed, and I readily admit that you could have counted me among the nonbelievers. Then I was taken under the wing of a group of exceptional people who just happened to live in my neighborhood and the rest, as they say, is history. I am happy to report that magic is now on the rise all over the world, and I’m proud to have played some small part in its renaissance.

Over the years I’ve risen to the position of archdruid, traveling the world in search of lost knowledge, and not only have I met some of the most wonderful and unusual people along the way, I’ve also unearthed some truly fantastic stories. The most enjoyable part of my quest is revealing to my fellow mages, often to their utter amazement, that many of these stories are true. Now that I’ve finally convinced my wife, Quinn, to give up teaching 7th grade science and join me in retirement, I’m going to have to let her in on my little secret so she can begin to accompany me on my journeys. It shouldn’t be a problem because not only is she extremely open minded, she enjoys meeting new people and exploring interesting places just as much as I do. I miss her company whenever I go on these trips and know she would have loved to explore Vancouver Island and their old-growth forests with me. I don’t know why I didn’t level with her years ago.

The stewardess just finished making her rounds, leaving me with a plastic cup of ice water and a bag of dry pretzels. As I turn my attention to the countryside flying past under my window, I’m surprised to see we have already cleared the Rockies and are cruising over that dark expanse known as the Great Plains. You don’t get many flights like the one I’m on tonight where the air is crisp and clear, the new moon is hiding its face, and the stars are sparkling like diamonds against the backdrop of an infinite sky. They say there are a hundred billion stars in just our galaxy alone, and astronomers have estimated that there may be over two trillion galaxies in the universe. Numbers like that are hard for someone like me to fathom. Who or what was responsible for their creation, I wonder, and how many other inhabitable worlds are out there just waiting to be discovered?

As I continue to gaze out over the darkened plains, there has to be hundreds, maybe even thousands of farm lights glimmering off in the distance, almost as if some giant hand reached down from the sky and scattered stardust across the landscape. I never made the connection before, but the lights of the farms and towns glittering up from below remind me of the stars and constellations in the skies overhead. The night is so clear tonight it’s easy to make out numerous towns fading off in the horizon, and I know, since I grew up in one of those small towns, they each have a unique story all their own. Which reminds me of something that happened long ago in my small cluster of sparkling lights. Let me tell you all about it. It makes for quite a tale.

CHAPTER 1

Saturday

Summer 1966

Summer has finally arrived, and all I can say is, about time! It’s only late May, and I know that summer doesn’t officially begin until summer solstice on June 21, but our last day of school was Friday, and Saturday confirmation class just wrapped up this morning, so as far as I’m concerned, the season has officially begun. Don’t get me wrong. I really don’t mind school all that much. I mean, I get decent enough grades, all As and Bs except for penmanship and behavior, which I can never seem to bring up any higher than a C. What can I say? I’m not perfect. I like the hot lunch they serve whenever Mom lets me stay, which isn’t very often since we live so close to school, plus there’s always PE and recess to look forward to. I’m always excited to head back to classes in the fall so I can catch up with my old classmates, sporting the latest styles from the Sears catalogue and stocked up with brand-new school supplies. But by the time all the newness has worn off and Halloween is in the rearview mirror, the thrill is gone! Most fall and winter days are gloomy, cold, and colorless. If you live around here, you know exactly what I’m talking about. At least school gives me something to do to keep my mind off our lousy weather and being stuck inside week after week. Then April rolls around and the grass begins to turn green, trees begin to leaf out, birds return from wherever they go to escape our grim winters, and it becomes virtually impossible to concentrate on what the teacher is saying or to even to sit still. That’s when I grow impatient for the last day of school to roll around so I can finally get my freedom back.

That’s how I’m Feeling right now, free at last! We had just finished dinner, and since all my daily duties were already taken care of, Mom gave me permission to ride my bike around my neighborhood located on the north side of Le Mars, yelling out-after I bolted out the front door and was already hopping on my Schwinn Tiger-to be sure to be home by dark. The Tiger had two gears and was the best bike a guy like me could ever want. If I want to get some speed up, all I have to do is start peddling in low gear, then once I get up enough momentum, switch over to high and just take off. I usually prefer to go solo on these evening rides, not because I’m stuck up or anything, but because I’ve always considered it my time. I enjoy feeling the wind in my face as I speed down the streets and take in the evening sounds. My little sister, Ann, is a lot of fun and seems to have the same crazy streak I do, but I never ask her to come along because not only is she a horrible rider, she never stops talking. I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace. My older sister, Susan, could keep up with me, no problem, but she’s much too cool to be seen hanging out with her younger brother. She’d much rather spend her time yacking away on the phone, listening to Motown records, or reading some stupid teen magazine. Her loss, right?

As I reflected back on my first day of summer vacation while cruising down the quiet streets, I thought today had turned out to be particularly outstanding. First, we got out of confirmation class early for a change and had a surprise end-of-the-year celebration. It wasn’t much of an affair, but at least we were allowed to go outside and play games and even got sugar cookies and watered-down red Kool-Aid, so a guy couldn’t complain. I swear, we have more religious education than any church in town. Confirmation classes go from fourth to eighth grade during the school year, starting out at eight-thirty Saturday morning and lasting until noon. So my sisters and I were forced to roll out of bed early on the only day of the week we could sleep in, and to add insult to injury, miss out on all the Saturday morning cartoon shows. Then there’s Sunday school that begins right after the eight-thirty church service and lasts for about an hour. You would think, with all classes I have to take, I’d be an expert on the Bible, but you’d be wrong. I would never admit this to Mom and Dad, but I find the New Testament kind of boring and usually tune those lessons out. What I really enjoy are some of the stories out of the Old Testament, like the one where God sent hail and lightning down from heaven to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah or the one where he made the walls of Jericho come tumbling down. I could listen to those kinds of stories all day.

The second good thing that happened today was the posting of the rosters for this season’s Little League baseball teams. Since I just finished sixth grade, I would be moving up from the majors to senior league and was a little nervous to find out what team I was going to be on. There’s this guy in town, Bill Sullivan, who is a big shot in Little League. Every year he coaches one of the teams and does everything he can to stack it with the best players. When I was still in the majors he coached the Braves, and they won the league championship two years in a row. I was on the Phils, and while we weren’t nearly as good as the Braves, I was still really proud of our team. We went from being in fifth place two years ago to second place last year, and had a great bunch of great guys on our team. Wouldn’t you know it, Sullivan had decided to move up to the senior league with the rest of us, and would no doubt put together the same loaded team. I knew there was no way I was going to be selected to be on his team since I was never considered one of his chosen few. I was just hoping to be on a team that was good enough to give him a run for his money.

The rosters had been posted out at the Little League field earlier in the day, so after lunch I hopped on my bike and headed down there to discover what team I was on. Our house and my Dad’s veterinarian clinic, located right next door, are on the north side of the downtown district, right across the alley from the billiard hall. Since the baseball fields were on the south side of town, I had to ride the entire length of the downtown district plus another mile further south to get there. There were several routes I could take, but the back alleys were always my favorite. Not only were their surfaces all beat up, uneven, and full of potholes-a challenge to anybody’s bike-riding skills-but the backs of the stores were so much more interesting to look at than the fronts. You never knew what you were going to come across.

Around the corner and past The Cue were the police and fire stations that shared the same building, then the GM dealership, followed by the open garbage bins behind Swanson’s grocery store on the end of the block. I always had to slow down when I passed just in case there was some decent-looking produce I could use in a food fight with the neighbor kids. There’s nothing more satisfying than hitting one of those nugget-munching Frecking kids with a rotten tomato! The smells wafting out the back of Vander Meer’s Bakery, the first store you came to after crossing First Street, were amazing, but I always got the willies when I rode past the back of the old Opera House, further up the alley on the opposite side. I guess Le Mars had its glory days back in the late 1800s and there were still a few old buildings left over from that period. The Opera House was one of them. It was pretty much abandoned by now, with a few stores remaining on the main floor, but it was still impressive and always worth a second look. It was one of the biggest buildings in town, three stories tall and almost half a block long, constructed out of dark red bricks. The front was decorated with big black pillars and there was some cool stonework edging the roof. I could never make out exactly what the carvings depicted, but they appeared to be some kind of animals, maybe mythical. I’ll have to put that on my summer to-do list and try to figure out if there’s a story behind them. The back door to the Central Tap, which was just down the alley from Vander Meer’s and right across from the Opera House, always seemed to be open no matter what time of day you cruised by, and there were always a few guys sitting at the bar in the dark, drinking beer. Nobody in my family drinks, so it’s always been a bit of a mystery to me exactly what the attraction is, but a sad feeling just seems to roll out the door whenever I ride by, along with cool, moist air from their air conditioning.

As I headed further south and crossed Plymouth Street to reach the next alleyway, the Union Hotel loomed off to the right. You couldn’t miss it! It’s a huge three-story building, bigger than the Opera House, taking up most of a city block. The old hotel is another one of those buildings from Le Mars’s glory days and for some reason gives off a bad vibe, just like the old Opera House. Part of its bad vibe might be due to its owner, Mr. Wagner, who always seems to be standing in one of the front windows, leering out at people as they walked by. He’s totally creepy looking-there’s no other way to describe him. Some of the guys in Boy Scouts heard he was a German soldier during World War I, and the reason he looked and acted so weird was because he was exposed to mustard gas. I guess that all could be true, but I was never convinced that was the whole story because on top of the scars on the right side of his face and his perpetually shrugging shoulder, he has crazy eyes. Something’s definitely not right with the guy. Whatever his story is, if I found myself in that part of town, I always tried to give him and the old hotel a wide berth. Now that I thought about it, I’d done such a good job of avoiding the place I’d never even bothered to check out the alleyway that runs behind it. Weird! I’m going to have to put that on my to-do list this summer as well: explore the alley behind the Union Hotel.

Most of the south side of downtown is bordered by the railroad tracks, with a small section extending further south, including the L and D Lounge and the old public library. Adults always refer to the library as the Carnegie Library because Mr. Carnegie, who had so much money he didn’t know what to do with it all, decided years ago to build a bunch of libraries, all across the country. Hard to imagine having that much money, but I’m glad he decided to build one in Le Mars, because I spend a lot of my spare time there. They had an almost endless supply of books on World Wars I and II, world history, and military weapons, and the librarian, Mrs. Smith, is really nice to me-probably because I’m one of the few kids who ever hangs out there!

There’s also a camp located just south of the tracks composed of several old lean-to shacks and tents, bordered by the Royal Theater to the north and the library to the east, that everybody calls Hobo Town. I’ve heard hobos are transients who roll into town on empty train cars looking for temporary work, and when they finish, hop on another train and head on down the line. They sound like free spirits to me. There’s usually a few hobos hanging around the place, and while they tend to look a little grubby, there’s always something intriguing about them. I’ve come close to biking down that side of Central Avenue on several occasions and starting up a conversation with one of them, but I always chicken out. I don’t know why, because there’s nothing threatening about them. One of these days! Maybe add that to my summer to-do list?

Past Hobo Town, the alleys become a bit more sketchy as they transform into rutted dirt lanes with occasional mud puddles, barking dogs, and old people scowling out from their backyards as you bike by. Who needs that? So it’s at that point that I leave the alleys and head over to Central Avenue. It’s the best street in town to bike on by far, covered by smooth asphalt with barely a crack or a bump, and it’s slightly hilly, so while I struggle a little going uphill, I can really pick up some speed as I head back down the other side. I never gave it much thought before, but I would have to consider this area the rich side of town. The houses lining the street are much larger than the houses in my neighborhood, two to three stories tall with big porches and lots of character. And the trees were amazing! The first three blocks of Central were lined on both sides by some of the tallest trees in town, with dark, rough bark and perfectly straight trunks. Dad explained once, when we were out on calls, that Dutch elm disease killed most of these trees years ago, but for some reason the ones in Le Mars weren’t affected. I guess tree nuts from all over the place make special trips here just to admire them. I’m just glad they survived, because riding up and down that part of Central Avenue was like traveling through some majestic green tunnel. If I was lucky, there would be a little breeze and the leaves would rustle, almost sigh, as I passed underneath, and sometimes, if I really paid attention, I could pick up the faint scent of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Kind of like flowers and spices all mixed together. It was just one more thing that made riding down Central Avenue special.

About a mile south of downtown, I had to take a right off Central Avenue and go a few more blocks before I reached the ball fields. As I headed west down Eighth Street, I could see a small group of kids clustered around the concession stand, where they must have posted the rosters. Most of them were younger than me, probably minor and major-league players, but I did see a couple of guys I recognized, Dave Weber and Steve Taylor, who were the stars of the Braves last year. Was it my imagination or were they scowling at me? Weird! I hadn’t seen either one of them since the end of last season, so I thought I’d head over to say hi and see how their year had been. But the jerks took off before I could reach them. I wondered what that was all about.

The first thing I noticed when I looked at the roster was that there were two fewer teams in the senior league than there had been in the majors the previous year. Sullivan’s team, the Senior League Cubs, was listed at the top, and they had pretty much the same lineup they had for the past two years, which was no surprise. I was listed on the Orioles roster and happy to see I had the same coach as last year, Mr. Lawrence, as well as a fair number of my old teammates. Much to my surprise, we managed to pick up two new pitchers from the defunct teams, Tommy Parrick and Knox Stone, probably the best two pitchers in the entire league. As I went down the roster, I noticed we also picked up Kilian Mooney, who was a fantastic shortstop. I don’t know how Mr. Lawrence managed to pull it off, but it seemed we had ourselves a team. No wonder those jerks from the Cubs were scowling at me. They knew the Orioles were going to give them a run for their money this summer. Maybe they secretly wished they played for Mr. Lawrence, the big-time losers!

So as I continue my ride on this outstanding Saturday evening, I’m on cloud nine. And I still haven’t told you the rest of my news. I have my own lawn-mowing service, with a total of five yards to take care of, which earns me a little spending money. Mom and Dad give me and my sisters each twenty-five cents a week for an allowance, but that doesn’t last me very long, what with my coin collection, candy cravings, and borderline addiction to pinball. Mom won’t buy any pop or candy, telling us sugar is bad for our teeth, but lets us spend our allowance money on anything we want. If all I had to worry about were candy and pop, I could probably get by. But The Cue is right across the alley from my Dad’s vet clinic, and not only does it have a bunch of pool tables, it also has several pinball games. It costs a dime for one game and a quarter for three, so it wouldn’t be hard for me to blow my entire allowance in ten minutes, or even less.

I’m also starting to build a pretty decent coin collection and probably drive the tellers at Le Mars Savings Bank crazy, because whenever I put enough money together, I go there and trade it for rolls of pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. Then I take them home, go through all the coins, and find a winner every now and then like an Indian head penny, a buffalo nickel, a Mercury dime, or a Standing Liberty quarter. After I checked them all out, I’d put the ones I didn’t want to keep back in the paper rolls, replace the ones I’d kept, put a little ink mark on the paper rolls so I knew they had already been checked, and bring them back to the bank to trade for new ones. I tried not to do it too often because I knew it had to be annoying, but all that work was starting to pay off.

Bottom line: I needed an additional source of income, and mowing lawns seemed to be the answer. Dad said I could use our mower if I bought my own gas, and thank God gas was cheap. Since I got anywhere from a dollar to a dollar and fifty cents per yard, I could clear around six dollars a week, and since all my yards are small and close by, I could knock them all off in a day. I knew I could handle mowing a couple more yards, but there weren’t a whole lot of other opportunities in my part of town. I seem to have all the old single ladies in my neighborhood sewn up, and I haven’t been able to find anybody else who was willing to shell out extra cash to have their yards mowed. I had pretty much given up hope on picking up any more lawns when I got a call from the Danbrinks.

Mr. and Mrs. Danbrink had the coolest house in our neighborhood, but what’s more important to a lawn-mowing guy like me is, their yard is huge! Mr. Danbrink called our house earlier today, totally out of the blue, and asked Mom if I was interested in adding their yard to my list. She gave her permission, put me on the phone, and I spoke to him for the first time in my life. He and his wife go to our church, and I see them pretty much every week at the eighty-thirty Sunday service, so I guess I’ve kind of grown up with them. But since they always sit toward the back of the church, keep pretty much to themselves, and take off right after the service is over, they’ve always been a bit of a mystery. I had never even heard either one of them speak, now that I thought about it. Anyway, after a few pleasantries, he asked me how much I wanted to charge. It was a big yard and I wasn’t really sure what would be appropriate, so I hesitated. Would two dollars be too much? Before I really had a chance to think it through, I blurted out the sum of three dollars. Where had that come from? It was almost as if someone had put the thought in my head. You can imagine my surprise when he immediately agreed. I was totally flustered and tried to explain that three dollars was way too much and I’d be glad to do it for two, but he just chuckled and told me three dollars was exactly what he had in mind. So that’s how my relationship with the Danbrinks began.

I had been randomly riding up and down different streets on my Saturday evening jaunt with no particular destination in mind when I found myself stopped right in front of their house. Since it wasn’t dark yet, I thought I’d take a few moments to size up their yard before I headed home. They lived only a few blocks away from us and I’d been past their house hundreds of times before, but as I stood gazing at it from across the street, I was surprised to realize I had never paid much attention to it. It’s the largest house in our part of town, three stories high and constructed of reddish pink brick, with a wrap-around porch and lots of fancy woodwork Mom called gingerbreading. The property was located on a big corner lot and enclosed by a wrought iron fence that looked strong enough to withstand a tornado. I thought the house would fit in better with all the fancy houses on Central Avenue but then again, you probably wouldn’t even notice it there, surrounded by all the other mansions. Here, in my part of town, it looked like a palace.

Since it was just starting to get dark and I couldn’t really see the yard very well, I crossed the street so I could peer through the fence railings and get a better look. My first impression was the yard looked much larger than it did from the street. The light must have been playing tricks on me, because I really couldn’t make out its borders clearly, and it seemed the harder I looked, the fuzzier and more indistinct they became, fading off into the shadows. I’d always known there were several large trees in their yard, but when I peered through the fence, squinting my eyes to help bring more details into focus, it looked more like a small forest. The woods bordered a stone patio, and there was a small mound tucked away in the back, with a narrow path leading from the back of the house to a small metal door located on its side. Very cool! The longer I looked and the harder I concentrated, more details slowly began to pop out, such as a concrete fountain in the shape of a fish, a couple of birdbaths and bird feeders scattered haphazardly around the landscape, and several small statues. There was also a fishpond glowing in the twilight. Did I see some movement beneath the bushes, or was it just the wind? As I gazed over to the house, I could barely make out its outline silhouetted in the evening sky. Crap, how did it get so dark outside? I must have lost track of time! Better saddle up the Tiger, get my butt in gear, and head for home. But for some reason it was hard to tear my attention away from the yard. I still wasn’t sure what I had just witnessed, and I had a feeling I was only scratching the surface.

Thank God it was only a short ride to my house because it was really dark outside, and I knew I was going to catch it when I got home. As I pulled away from the Danbrinks and started heading down Third Avenue, I became spooked by the ghostly shadows cast by streetlights glowing overhead. Then I began to notice the sound of rustling leaves, which was strange because there wasn’t any wind. As I looked up, I saw the tops of the trees whipping back and forth as if we were in the middle of a big storm. While I was still gazing up, trying to figure out what in the heck was going on, a flock of birds exploded seemingly out of nowhere, diving in and out of the lower branches of trees lining the street. But they were moving so fast, I wasn’t sure if they were birds or something different. It could just as easily have been a bunch of bats living in one of the old buildings downtown. As I focused and tried to get a better look, they careened up to the top of the tallest trees and vanished into thin air, as suddenly they had appeared. I had never seen anything quite so strange, and the hair on the back of my neck began to stand on end. I started peddling as fast as I could, and began to get a little short of breath and could feel my heart pounding. When I finally made it home, I was so scared I bailed off my bike at full speed and let it skid to a stop on the front yard, bursting through the front door completely out of breath. Mom and Dad were sitting in the partially lit living room, pretending to read books but obviously waiting for me to get home. Susan and Ann were already in bed. I didn’t know what time it was, but I was definitely in trouble.

CHAPTER 2

Saturday

Rolf Wagner

God, I hate the people in this godforsaken town, Rolf muttered to himself as he sat in his office at the Union Hotel, peering out the window as Saturday shoppers shuffled by. By now he had become a fixture in town. People always waved to him as they passed by, so what else could he do but smile and wave back? Little did they know how much contempt he held for them. Why did I ever leave Germany? Rolf spoke to no one in particular. As he gazed out the window and observed all the morning activity, he knew his was a rhetorical question and one he should quit asking himself. Fate was to blame. He had grown up in a small village in the Harz Mountains, a region of renowned natural beauty made famous by its tales of dark magic, and Grandmother Wagner had been a powerful witch. Many of the villagers brought sick family members to her in hopes of a cure, but when some of her cures proved a bit too miraculous, people began to suspect her of dabbling in black magic. His parents tried to convince him their suspicions were unfounded, based on ignorance and superstition. Grandmother wasn’t really a witch, for God’s sake: she just got lucky from time to time when one of her cures actually worked.

Rolf knew better, because Grandmother had shared some of her stories with him when he was still a little boy. They were fantastic tales that most people would scoff at, but he hung on her every word. Maybe that’s why she had decided to confide in him in the first place. She could tell he was a true believer. His favorite stories were the ones when on moonless nights she would cast her favorite spell, the one that allowed her to fly-not on a broomstick like they portray in old fairy tales, but floating freely among the tops of the trees. You see, that’s when Grandmother fed. As he sat riveted in place, listening to one fantastic story after another, he hoped that one day she would share her secrets so he, too, could learn how to fly. He could never work up enough courage to ask her directly but remained confident she would share her knowledge with him when the time was right. All he needed to do was be patient. So, every evening before he went to bed, he would spend a few minutes gazing longingly out his window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Then on one moonless night, when he was only ten years old, he finally saw Grandmother flying above the trees wearing a black dress and shawl, its long train flowing behind her in the breeze. She must have sensed his presence, because she turned to him and grinned a wicked grin, flashing a mouth full of sharp, bloody teeth.

Several years later, Rolf was drafted into the German army. By 1918 it was obvious that Germany was going to lose the war, but its leaders weren’t ready to give up just yet. The German army had been decimated, both by casualties and an influenza epidemic that had swept through the ranks, so they needed more soldiers, even fourteen-year-olds like him. Rolf did his duty and reported to the recruiting station, where they gave him an ill-fitting uniform, a rifle and some rudimentary training, and shipped him off to the front, just in time to take part in of one of the last battles. Since he was untested, he was placed in the reserve line a few hundred yards behind the front trenches with the rest of the rookies, who were all scared out of their minds. As they stood in formation, trying to act as brave as they could, they began to hear the thunder of distant British artillery and were suddenly enveloped by loud explosions and flashes of fire up and down the line. Many of the new recruits were blown to bits, including the boy standing next to him, but Rolf managed to escape death, suffering terrible burns to the right side of his face and shrapnel wounds to his right shoulder. He was in pretty bad shape but somehow managed to survive, and was sent to a military hospital full of badly wounded men, moaning or crying out in agony, to recuperate. No matter how hard the doctors worked, there was always a new pile of dead bodies stacked out back the next day, waiting to be buried. The armistice was signed before he left the hospital, and once he had healed properly, he was sent home so he could work in the family butcher shop. None of the local girls showed any interest in him, and he assumed it was because of the ugly scars on his face. That didn’t really bother Rolf. After surviving all the horrors of war, all he wanted to do was live a nice, quiet life. Fifteen years after the war ended, when his grandfather suddenly passed away, the only life he ever knew was about to change.

His grandparents had decided to immigrate to northwest Iowa a few years after the war ended. There were already numerous German immigrants living in the area, and some had sent home stories of a rich English community that had grown up around the town of Le Mars. There were reports of a prosperous hotel for sale, and since Grandpa was ready for a change of scenery and folks were growing more suspicious of Grandma’s activities, he thought it might be a smart time to move. So he sold the farm and his grandparents moved to Le Mars, sight unseen, to begin a new life. They knew they’d made the right choice the minute they stepped off the train because Le Mars was a bustling town with only a few second-rate hotels for competition. Once they got settled in and got more familiar with the place, they made an offer and became the proud owners of the Union Hotel.

Le Mars was an interesting town back in those days, not the boring small town you see today. Back in the 1870s, three wealthy English brothers came up with a unique investment plan to buy up as much virgin prairie as they could, split it up into four-hundred-acre parcels, and build houses and barns on them. Then they would sell the ready-made farms to second and third (and even fourth) sons of wealthy English aristocrats. In those days, the eldest son inherited almost all the family wealth, leaving any younger brothers and sisters to basically fend for themselves, so this was marketed as an opportunity for the younger children to learn how to plant crops, raise cattle, and run a business. The enterprise was a huge success, at least at first. Most of the early members were young men in their late teens and early twenties, single and although well educated, lacking in any practical skills. Managers were hired to supervise these young pups, teaching them the basic skills of farming, and to make sure they didn’t spend all their time at the bars drinking and playing cards. At its peak, the English colony counted almost five hundred members, a big group for the relatively small prairie town. Since most of them received generous allowances from home, money flowed, and business at the Union Hotel was booming.

In those days, it was considered one of the finest hotels west of the Mississippi, with a fancy restaurant that served every type of food imaginable. A large room in the basement had been remodeled to resemble a British pub and was christened The English Club. It served as an oasis for these young English gentlemen, a place to escape the harsh reality of life in rural Iowa, at least for an evening. Farming had always been hard work, but was much harder back then due to a shortage of labor. Land was cheap, so if you worked hard enough, you could scrape together enough money after just a couple of years to buy your own farm. So why serve as hired labor any longer than you had to? As a result, these young English gentlemen were forced to put in long days, often working sunrise to sunset seven days a week. Since endless hard labor wasn’t what most of them signed up for, the English colony gradually dwindled in size so that by the late 1880s, many of its members had left to pursue other interests. Only a few decided to stick around and put down roots. It was shortly after this period of decline that Rolf’s grandparents took ownership of the Union Hotel. While they had some good years, the previous owner must have seen the writing on the wall.

The passing of time hadn’t been kind to the Union Hotel. Most of the wealthier English aristocrats had decided to move on and look for greener pastures, while the remaining locals were frugal and not inclined to spend money at a fancy restaurant. So the restaurant was the first part of the operation to shut down. The English Club remained a going concern but gradually fell into a state of decline and was no longer the swanky destination it once was. Once the colony shrunk in size, there were fewer visitors from England, and the hotel was never more than half full, so the Wagners were forced to shutter all the rooms on the top floor. After that, business stabilized, and the hotel did fairly well until the Great Depression hit. It was a hard time when people were more concerned about staying alive than blowing money at bars and hotels, so their business took another dive. That’s about the time Grandfather Wagner passed away. Grandmother couldn’t handle running the place all by herself and needed another Wagner to help out, someone she could trust, so Rolf took up the call and moved to America. Not only did he feel it was his duty to help, but he still hadn’t given up his dreams of becoming a warlock. He packed his bags, left his beautiful mountain village, and headed to…Le Mars, Iowa?

As Rolf gazed vacantly out the front window of the hotel, enjoying an early whiskey while observing all the people walk past the hotel like a bunch of mindless zombies, he had to laugh. Over the years he’d become a member of the Elks Club, was a Rotarian in good standing, had donated money to all the popular local charities, and was even a member of the municipal band. He had them all buffaloed into thinking he was a pillar of society, someone they could trust. The fools! The fact of the matter was he had never been truly accepted by the people of Le Mars. He had dark memories dating all the way back to World War II when kids in town would taunt him, calling him Kraut or Nazi. The little shitheads even painted a couple of crude swastikas on the back of his hotel! Over the years, the scars on the right side of his face had contracted into a permanent half-rictus grin while the injury to his right shoulder made him appear to be constantly shrugging. He overheard people talking behind his back more than once, saying the reason he looked so sad and pathetic was due to an exposure to mustard gas, and actually felt sorry for him. If they had any idea of all he’d done or what he was planning on doing, they would choke on their pity, run home as fast as they could, and hide shaking under their beds. Rolf always got a big kick out of reciting the Four Way Test at the beginning of every Rotary meeting. Is it the truth? Is it fair to all concerned? Will it build goodwill and better friendships? Will it be beneficial to all concerned? Bah! What disgusting drivel! How about this? Hi, I’m Rolf Wagner, here to reach out a helping hand to jerk you off your big, clumsy feet. Now that’s a rule he could live by. He’d come to the conclusion over the years that our world is made up of sheep and wolves. The people of Le Mars were obviously the sheep and he, the distinguished and perpetually smiling Mr. Wagner, was a wolf!

CHAPTER 3

Saturday Night/Sunday Morning

The Bates Farm

As I walked through the front door, you could almost cut the tension with a knife. Susan and Ann were already in bed, and since we were allowed to stay up until ten in the summertime, I knew it was later than I had hoped. Where in the Sam Hill have you been? Dad called out. This was the closest he ever came to swearing, so I knew I was in deep trouble.

I was just out riding my bike, I answered, still trying to figure out how time got away from me. Since it was still light outside, I thought I had plenty of time to swing by the Danbrinks and check out their yard. I don’t know how I managed to lose track of time, but I promise it won’t happen again.

Well, Dad said, it’s eleven o’clock. I don’t know what you found so interesting over there, but it’s way past your curfew. It’s Sunday tomorrow, so you need to join me for early church, then you and I are going out on some calls. I’ll be castrating and vaccinating little pigs, so I could use another pair of hands. Plus, you need some help getting out of the dog house. What a relief! I thought they were going to ground me for a week or something worse, like take away my bike, but it looked like all my punishment was going to be was to catch pigs for Dad. I didn’t mind going out on calls at all, kind of enjoyed it actually, so this was punishment I could handle. But Mom was really upset, and I dreaded what might be coming next.

We were worried sick about you, especially with all the weird things that have been going on. On top of that, teenagers are out driving around on Saturday nights, shooting the loop right in front of our house. They’re way too busy drinking beer and carrying on to watch out for little boys on bikes. I almost got out the car to go look for you. It sounds like you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow, so you’d better go to bed and get a good night’s sleep. Mom turned her head and waved me off.

The silent treatment was always the worst punishment you could get. I felt like a real jerk worrying her like that, but I hadn’t meant to come home so late. I swear, it seemed like I only spent a few short minutes checking out the Danbrinks’ yard, but those minutes had somehow turned into a couple of hours. What happened, did I step into the Twilight Zone or something? I wanted to ask them how the tops of trees could whip back and forth on a totally calm night, and what about that flock of creatures-birds or bats-that practically flew right past my face before disappearing into the sky overhead like a puff of smoke? I knew I had gotten off pretty light and didn’t want to push my luck by asking any stupid questions, so I headed off to my room with my tail between my legs, put on my pajamas, and tried to piece together the evening’s events. As I lay in bed, watching the branches of the willow tree outside my room sway gently in the breeze and listening to the whispering noise they made as they brushed against my window, nothing about this evening seemed to make any sense. Before I knew it, I was fast asleep, dreaming of the Danbrinks’ yard crawling with strange, furry creatures, as well as a dark shadowy figure floating over the countryside.

It seemed like I’d just fallen asleep when I heard Dad knocking on my bedroom door. It was time to get up and get ready for church. I wanted to start the day off on a good foot, so I jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen, where I poured a glass of Hawaiian Punch and made myself a bowl of cereal. Dad already had the radio on and was leaning back in his chair, reading the Sunday paper as he sipped on a cup of coffee.

Where are we going today? I asked. I had a list of my favorite farms to visit, like the Webers, the Johnsons, or the Dickmans, but Dad rattled off a couple of farms I’d never heard of before, located south of town. This wasn’t totally bad news because even though those farms were further away, it meant we would be driving right by Neptune Corner, and if I was lucky, Dad might swing by for a bottle of pop. First we had to get church out of the way, so I finished up breakfast and put on my suit and tie. Although I might complain about going to church, I actually kind of enjoyed it. Most of the families who attended early service were farmers, and since many of them were Dad’s clients, they would strike up conversations with him in the narthex before the service began. It always made me feel like one of the guys, standing there next to him, listening to them discuss the price of corn. The stained-glass windows and woodwork in the main part of the church were beautiful to look at. And I would never admit it to any of the guys, but I loved the music!

We have a small college in our town, Westmar College, and most of the faculty in their music department attended our church, so that has to be at least part the reason. The adult choir, directed by Mr. Corbin, always sang at eight-thirty service, so we were going to miss out on that, but our organist, Mrs. Hagen, played at every service and did an amazing job filling the church with wonderful music. Reverend Dale, our senior pastor, was to give the sermon today, and his homilies were always something to look forward to since he delivered them with such emotion, mixing in jokes, laughter, and even shedding a tear every now and then. When the service ended, Mrs. Hagen would send us on our way with an old-fashioned inspirational song, usually a composition by Bach, an old Lutheran composer from Germany. I know it sounds kind of corny, but his compositions always made me feel closer to God. After the service ended and the congregation began to file out into the narthex, I began thinking about our Sunday-morning calls when I noticed Mr. and Mrs. Danbrink separate from the gathering crowd. I thought they always went to the eight-thirty service, so I was a little surprised to see them as they slowly walked over and stood next to us.

Good morning, Dr. Walker! And how are you doing, Ben? I’m surprised to see the both of you at seven o’clock service. Mrs. Danbrink was first to speak, and as she did, I thought they made a distinguished-looking couple. Mr. D was around six feet tall, with a head full of short, curly auburn hair, a neatly groomed beard speckled with gray, and sparkling blue eyes. He was compact and powerfully built and looked like a wrestler, now that I thought about it. Mrs. D was slender and around five feet eight inches, with a pleasant face, long, jet-black hair, and intense green eyes. Mr. Danbrink and I are pleased you’ve agreed to help us out with some of our chores this summer, and we both thought it would be nice if we gave you a little tour of our yard before you started. Would you have some time to stop by later today? I hate to admit it, but I was speechless. The mysterious Danbrinks, who always seemed to keep their distance, were standing less than five feet away, and Mrs. Danbrink was actually talking to me. I felt like a total country bumpkin, dressed in my old suit with sleeves so short they rode halfway up my forearms. I continued to stare at her until Dad nudged me with his elbow and told me to answer the nice lady. How embarrassing!

Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Danbrink. I’d love to come over today. I’m helping my Dad out today, so would it be okay if I came over around three? Pig catching is a dirty business, so I wanted to give myself plenty of time to clean up. My part of the job was to jump in the pen, chase the little pigs around until I was able to catch one by his back legs, swing him around, and brace his back against my stomach. Then Dad would give the pig a shot in each leg, castrate him, and mark his back with a grease pen, all of which took only a couple of minutes. I was fortunate Dad was so good at it, because you couldn’t believe how strong those little suckers were. The bigger ones could really rattle your brain with all the kicking and squirming they did. Since pigpens were particularly dusty and full of manure, stepping in pig poop couldn’t be avoided, so by the time you were finished, not only were you filthy and spitting out dust, you smelled like a stinky pig. So after we got home from calls, I needed to give myself enough time to take a long, hot bath and change into some clean school clothes so I could put my best foot forward.

Three o’clock sounds perfect. Mrs. D answered. We’ll see you then. I thought that went well as I watched them turn and head toward the front entrance, disappearing into the dwindling crowd. Then I recalled how weird I thought their place looked the night before. I knew I had to be imagining things and hoped that when I went over later, it would look normal, just like every other yard in town.

Dad and I went to work shortly after church and had to drive a little farther than usual to reach our first job, ten miles south of town. It was typical of most of the farms you see around here-tidy and well maintained-and if you’ve never spent time on a farm, you need to some day because they’re fascinating places, each unique in its own way. Normally I would wander off and explore, but there wasn’t time for any of that on a Sunday morning. The farmer met us at the end of his driveway and led to where the pigs were corralled so we could get right to work. We worked nonstop for about an hour until the last pig was castrated. Once we had our hands and boots washed, the farmer handed Dad a check for the morning’s work, we hopped into the car, and were on our way. The next farm was quite a ways off the main highway, at least three miles down a gravel road, but to tell you the truth, barreling down those gravel roads was one of the high points of going on calls. Mom and Dad always drove Galaxie 500 Ford sedans, and after they served as our family car for two years, Dad would switch them over to his veterinarian practice and put on a ton of miles before trading them off. When he converted it to a work car, he’d take out the back seat and fill the resulting space full of cardboard boxes containing everything he needed, like bottles of medicines, boxes of gloves, and a variety of syringes, needles, and surgical tools. So objects were always clinking and clanking off each other as we drove down the roads, especially whenever we hit a railroad crossing. What made these drives special for me was the speed. Dad had a lead foot, and would always fly down those gravel roads going seventy to eighty miles per hour. When you crossed the mile intersections, there were usually dips in the road that would cause the car to catch a little air, sometimes a lot. When it did, it was the next best thing to being on a roller coaster. After a few dusty miles and a couple of deep dips, we crested a large hill, and I saw the Bates farm for the first time.

The Bates farm was a huge operation, consisting of a main house and numerous out buildings nestled in a narrow valley, bordered by woods on the north and west sides and crossed diagonally by the Broken Kettle Creek. In all my years of going on calls with Dad, which I’d done since I was five, I’d never seen a farm that was so massive, dilapidated, and downright spooky! We turned off the main road and drove down a narrow lane lined by trees in different states of decay, some with broken branches and others that appeared completely dead. It wasn’t until we entered the yard that I began to appreciate how large the main house was. It was massive, three stories tall and at least twice as big as the Danbrinks house, with a big front porch littered with rickety-looking chairs scattered haphazardly about, various boxes of junk, and a couple of porch swings in need of a good paint job. There was a second building tucked away behind the main one that looked like a dorm or bunkhouse with several broken windows, its front porch also cluttered with junk. As I attempted to get a closer look at the bunkhouse, two large, wicked-looking dogs chained to the porch railing silently emerged from the shadows and gave me a start.

I glanced off to my right and counted ten separate barns bordering the east side of the property, all in varying states of decay. What the heck? You never saw a farm around here in such a poor state