Visions of the Black Heaven

By Daniel Zien

The collector, Hans Schroeder I, grandfather of Hans Schroeder III, had a store in Chicago.
Hans Schroeder III, resident of Cagliari, Italy, received the medallions from his grandfather, Hans Schroeder 1. He was schooled by his grandfather to take over the company and is a successful collector and merchant.
Grandpa (the visitor, the crazy ole mountain man), Waynes grandfather.
Dukes grandmother died early in life.
Wayne (Duke), the grandson of the crazy ole mountain man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479795079

Daniel Zien

* to follow

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Small clouds of frozen mist formed as his gloved right hand steadied the door. His left gloved hand inserted the key into the lock, turning the key. The lock opened with a sharp snap.

The store front door opened. He enjoyed the sound of the welcome bell, and he hated the sound of a squeaky door hinge. The noise of a squeaky hinge robbed him of the calm control his store offered, a calm control he enjoyed and demanded. He oiled the hinges every week. There was something troubling about a squeaking door hinge.

He closed the door, walking his customary twelve steps into the small but efficient store. Walking past the three matching sculptured red velvet Victorian chairs with two marble end tables, he was pleased with the positioning of the furniture; two chairs and one marble table on the south wall, and the other chair and marble table on the north wall. He smiled, knowing he bought the furniture right as he remembered the Johnsons needed the money and had sold him the furniture at a fair price when they decided to move out west.

He walked past displays of antiques, watches, rings, gold, and precious collectables. One of his favorites, which a Ms. Alice Strader had sold him, was a golden pendant watch. It was not that the pendant was so special, but it had a unique shape, was larger than most women’s watches, and had a cover that made it desirable. The watch cover was solid gold, fashioned like an iris in full bloom, with a diamond in the middle of the petals. It had a two-foot gold chain with a solid gold decorative choker with two small inlaid opals on each side. He had never seen anything like it. Inside the cover was a name, A. Strader, with the date, July 4, 1893. Every time he held or walked by the watch, he felt a strange sensation of confidence and power.

He walked past his display of pistols, Remington rifles; each piece had its own special story that made it unique in its own right. On the wall behind the guns were a variety of German- and Swiss-made clocks. He did not allow the clocks to run due to the noise when they chimed on the hour. Hanging over his rolltop desk, facing the storefront windows, was a large oval mirror he used to help illuminate the store.

At the back of the room, opposite his desk, he put seven sticks of fat wood kindling and three logs inside the belly of the black woodstove. His gloved fingers fumbled while striking the white-and-red-tipped farmer’s match against the stove’s cast-iron belly, watching the sulfur tip explode in an orange and red flame, throwing the burning match on the fat wood kindling. The wood started to burn almost instantly.

He heard his hollow footsteps as he walked across the wood floor to the back of his office. He walked to his desk, passing his bookshelves, touching the secret knob that locked the false door hiding his safe from view of people who didn’t need to know what he had or where he put his most valued possessions.

Sitting down at his rolltop desk, he opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a daily ledger to start an entry, Business transactions, December 21, 1897. He set the ledger aside.

He leaned back in his chair to read the morning paper and waited for his first customer of the day, hearing the crackle of the fire, feeling its heat, and smelling the scent of hickory smoke as the hard wood started to burn.

The welcome bell rang, announcing the arrival of his first visitor. Looking over his paper, he felt a rush of cold air as he watched a tall, slender man walk in and close the door.

The visitor’s long riding coat hung open, showing no sign of a gun belt. His hat and clothes were dusty, and his jeans showed signs of saddle wear. The collector knew this visitor had been riding a long time.

The visitor carried a double saddlebag over his right shoulder, a saddlebag that appeared to be full, and a large burlap sack in his left hand. The burlap sack appeared to be heavy and swung in step as the visitor walked.

He felt the warm air return as he watched the visitor walk to the counter.

The visitor held his head high but wore his hat low, the hat’s rim covering his eyes and looking dusty, weathered, and worn.

He watched and listened to the visitor’s slow, strong, solid steps, steps that did not reveal a state of panic like those of most customers.

The visitor silently put the burlap sack and saddlebags on the counter.

With a smile in his voice, the collector heard himself speak in a dialect that was not his own, G’day, partner.

The visitor stood silently in front of the counter, eyes still covered by the rim of the hat.

Walking with a spring in his step, the collector moved from his desk to behind the counter, facing the visitor. The collector once again looked the visitor over and tried to start a friendly conversation to break the uncomfortable feeling and get a sense of what kind of man he was dealing with and what this strange visitor wanted to sell.

The collector said, What do we have here?

The visitor raised his head to the collector. The rim of his hat rose to reveal his face and eyes. The collector was taken aback by the color and intensity of the visitor’s eyes. The eyes were the deepest, darkest, and most intense blue he had ever seen; eyes that had a razor-sharp acuity, eyes that seemed to see everything and miss nothing, eyes that seemed to be able to look right through a person and see into the very core of the soul.

The collector had seen about every kind of eyes imaginable: scared eyes, desperate eyes, lying eyes, happy eyes, bored eyes, sad eyes, corrupt eyes, and yes, even mean eyes. The collector could read a person’s eyes and know if the customer was real, desperate, fake, or just evil. But the eyes of this visitor were different. This visitor had a young-looking face with old, wise eyes. The visitor’s face was expressionless; the only movement was the constant, razor-sharp focus of the eyes. The collector looked into a face as solid and motionless as a stone statue.

The silent visitor opened the burlap bag and brought out a large bronze helmet, a helmet that was too big for any man to wear today, yet a helmet just the same.

The silent visitor put the helmet in the hands of the collector.

The collector held the helmet. It was cold and had to weigh at least twenty pounds. The helmet had strange writings on the top and sides. It showed signs of wear and battle.

The visitor again opened the burlap bag and pulled out seven metal spearheads, each spearhead appearing to be eight to fourteen inches long and three to six inches wide. The spearheads weighed up to ten pounds. Each spearhead was made with a large opening to mount it to a handle the size of a small log.

The spearheads showed signs of use, dents, scrapes, and sharp edges that had been dulled through use.

Many arrowheads appeared in the same manner, blunt tips and dulled edges, as well as arrowheads without shafts.

Next, the visitor opened the burlap bag to reveal a dagger with a metal sheath. The dagger was at least twenty inches long and had a large metal loop on the outside metal sheath. The dagger was made for a hand more massive than the collector’s.

The visitor silently handed the dagger to the collector. The dagger made a tinny noise of metal scraping metal as the dagger was pulled out of its metal sheath. The blade of the dagger’s razor-sharp edge glistened in the light and it had some signs of dark blotched stains on the strange wooden handle.

This is a rare and unique find, the collector thought to himself. All the articles were made from a wood and metal that he had never seen before. The workmanship was magnificent, and the detail was exacting. Each article displayed the same kind of writing.

After several minutes of inspecting the articles, the collector carefully put the spearheads and the dagger down on the counter. He knew the saddlebag had something in it, but waited for the visitor to show him the next exhibit.

The visitor opened the saddlebag and pulled out a gold disk about six inches around, thicker in the middle and thinner on the edges. Silently the stranger put the object into the collector’s hands.

The collector felt the disk; it was cold and looked like gold. It was heavy like gold and had that smooth, creamy feel of gold.

The collector examined the article carefully. This article was not a disk per se, but more like a medallion. The medallion had the same kind of writing on the face, edges, and the rim.

The collector thought, I have seen many languages, languages of the Egyptians from 3000 BC and the writings of the Sumerians, both written in a cuneiform, yet this writing does not resemble either of those. The writing almost seems to be symbolic of ideas, like the Asian languages where each figure has a meaning unto itself. But these figures are not as complex as those of the Asian languages.

He carefully examined the medallion. On one side of the medallion was a picture of a solar system, a solar system with twelve planets. It clearly showed the sun with twelve orbiting planets. Each planet had a position, and all the planets seemed to have a flat orbit as in a solar system.

The collector looked into the face of the stranger. The stranger’s face had not changed. His eyes were expressionless, stone cold, revealing no emotion.

The visitor reached into the saddlebag and brought out another kind of medallion. This one was gray, a smooth gray medallion with what looked to be some kind of cloth or fiber coating on its surface. It had metal edges that had the same kind of writing that resembled the gold medallion.

The stranger’s hand reached into the saddlebag to retrieve two more gold medallions and two more gray medallions. The collector looked at the face of the stranger, wondering where he had found these artifacts.

The collector hurried to the front door and twisted the key to lock the door, flipping the sign to read closed.

As he turned back toward the stranger, he felt a moist heat and smelled a scent of humid, rotting vegetation. He saw something like a shadow in the corner of his vision.

The collector felt his face contort in a strange question, wondering where that scent might be coming from. It was the start of winter and there was not a sign of vegetation anywhere, let alone rotting vegetation. The thought of the shadow in the corner of his vision puzzled him, but right now he was too busy trying to finalize this purchase to be concerned with this thought.

The collector wanted the visitor’s articles, but did not want to show his desire.

The collector slowly walked back to the counter, noticing the visitor had not moved. He was frustrated. He could read everyone’s mind, but this man was different. The visitor had not moved, didn’t seem to breathe, and still had not even blinked his eyes.

As he walked behind his counter to face the visitor, he heard himself say, Well, these are very interesting things you have here. I am sure we can do some business today.

The collector said a number and watched the expression of the visitor.

The visitor’s expression did not change, yet his actions spoke volumes as he shook his head in an almost imperceptible no.

The collector thought for another second and said another figure.

Again the visitor shook his head no.

The collector thought for a few seconds, quickly calculating, and offered another figure.

Again, the visitor’s head silently shook no.

The collector thought of what he had available in his safe, and offered another figure.

The visitor’s head shook no.

The collector took one of the gold medallions and held it up; he knew gold, and this was positively gold. It had the feel of being solid gold, but he knew these pieces were priceless but not for the gold. The etching and carvings on the pieces were worth more than the gold would ever be all by itself. He wanted these pieces,