The Headless Horseman of Harrod's Creek and Other Encounters with the Supernatural of a Man Named Trent

By Kenneth P. Tucker

As he is preparing to leave for college, Gregory Trent receives a surprising gift, a sword cane containing a portion of the blade of a knight of the Holy Grail. With this strange gift comes a sworn duty to use it against supernatural forces of evil. While in college, Trent falls for a mysterious girl, Dor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Jan 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685151577

Kenneth P. Tucker

Kenneth P. Tucker is a retired professor of Shakespeare and Elizabethan drama at Murray State University in Kentucky. He taught introductory and graduate courses on the works of Shakespeare. He is the author of numerous reviews for The Shakespeare Newsletter and has published articles on other notable authors as well as a review on the Boris Karloff-Bela Lugosi horror film classic, The Black Cat and the 1960's cult television series, The Prisoner.

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Foreword

B

y learning that I have written a collection of horror stories, some persons may think I have gone off my literary rocker. Unfortunately, many persons think the horror story to be a subliterary genre loved by deranged teenagers and their adult counterparts. Those who deride the genre should remember that Hamlet has its ghost and Macbeth its witches. Of course, these works are valued for many reasons. I just wish to observe that the presence of ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and company doesn’t preclude realistic characters, observations on human psychology, a vivid style, or other virtues some associate with literature. Certainly, Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw and Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s Uncle Silas offer insights into the human psyche as well as tell fascinating stories. Despite his sometimes-flagrant abuses of style, H. P. Lovecraft has gained enough professional critical attention that he is now accepted as part of the American literary canon. A volume of his works is included in the Library of America. Not all writers and esthetes have found him a hack. Jean Cocteau declared him one of the world’s five greatest writers.

Of course, most horror stories are written just for fun. Essentially the tales of Trent were written for this purpose. Strangely enough, I did not choose to write them. Rather they chose me to be their teller! This bizarre statement, of course, needs explanation—prompt explanation. In January of 2013, I settled down to read The Complete John Thunstone by Manly Wade Wellman, a collection of short stories and two novels concerning the adventures of Thunstone, a sleuth of supernatural crimes and creatures. The tales are loosely linked together by Thunstone’s attempts to rescue his lady love, Sharon, the Countess Monterseco from the clutches of a modern master wizard, Rowley Thorne, based upon the notorious historical dabbler in the black arts, Aleister Crowley. Also binding the tales is Thunstone’s conflict with the Shonokins, members of a dying race who inhabited America before the coming of the Indians.

I had long heard of Wellman (1903–1983), an accomplished pulp writer in several genres. As a teenager who gorged himself on fantasy and science fiction pulps, I had read a number of Wellman’s tales and in later years some stories from his better-known series concerning John the Balladeer, but I had never heard of the Thunstone tales. I found myself excited and captivated by and, in a sense, possessed by them, so much so that before finishing the collection, similar tales and appropriate characters began emerging in my mind, forming themselves, like flowers blooming overnight, demanding to be written. After a few hours of wild constructive imagination, the plots and characters of several tales had been created. I had never experienced such a powerful outpouring of imagination. One evening I took a short walk about my neighborhood and came back with a story fully ready to be typed. Alas, this stream of inspiration did not last, and several times I had to solely construct some of the tales in the ordinary painstaking manner.

As my unconscious first grappled with creating my sleuth of the supernatural, it also began seeking a format for the stories. Immediately it settled upon that of the Sherlock Holmes tales of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, that of having the stories told by a close friend of the detective who narrates his own past discovery of the mystery as well as observing or hearing about the detective’s solving of the crime.

In adapting the Doyle narrative tradition to the horror genre, I knew that I was hardly being innovative. Soon after the emergence of Sherlock Holmes’s popularity, writers of horror tales began adapting to their genre his formula of the sleuth and the friend who tells the hero’s tales. One of the best of these is Algernon Blackwood’s John Silence (1905) in which the narrator tells stories of the protagonist’s conflict with a fire elemental, a Satanic brotherhood of priests, and a werewolf as well as another man’s involvement with a strange French village whose inhabitants at night change into giant cats and slink off into darkness to practice forbidden rites. Other Gothic horror writers followed the Doyle tradition. One of the very interesting followers of Doyle’s path was that hardy old pulpster Seabury Quinn, who for decades wrote of the adventures of Jules de Grandin, a French sleuth of the supernormal, whose dialogue, quoted by his friend narrator Dr. Samuel Trowbridge, probably irritated some American readers with such repeated exclamations as Mon Dieu, sacré bleu, and other Francoisms. Seabury Quinn’s popularity has recently returned, giving new life to these stories, which originally appeared in that grand old horror-fantasy zine Weird Tales (1922–1953). The Complete Tales of Jules de Grandin has grown to five sturdy volumes. Wellman’s Thunstone short stories also appeared in Weird Tales but departed from the Doyle tradition in that Thunstone has no narrator compadre who scripts the adventures. Wellman’s tales are told from the third-person narrative stance. I have chosen to use both methods

As the Trent stories began thrusting themselves into my consciousness, I decided I would include no vampires, werewolves, zombies, Frankenstein monsters, mummies, or other standard fare of the horror genre. (Well, I did break my resolution and allow myself one vampire and a few witches, but in the stories, I tried to be far from traditional.) Generally, I tried to write about hitherto ignored or rarely used denizens of the supernatural landscape. Here, among other creatures, you will find an Irish dullahan, a water spirit, one of the Erinyes, and a Pan-like being as well as my own take on Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles. The novel fascinated me as a teenager; I recall reading it several times. But what, nevertheless, cast dimness over my enjoyment was the conclusion in which the hound from hell is revealed as a hoax. So, I decided at last to construct my own version which featured a hellhound that was real.

As I wrote at the beginning, I have written these adventures as fun stories, and I have included no deeply hidden allegories, but I hope that one of the pleasures the reader will experience is seeing that events in a tale of horror can indeed relate to life as we experience it.

A headless horseman, a fairy witch, almost indescribably horrid creatures from other dimensions, the wyrd sisters of Macbeth, ghost riders in the sky, and a real-life hound of the Baskervilles are among the bizarre entities readers will encounter in The Headless Horseman of Harrod’s Hollow and Other Supernatural Experiences of the Man Called Trent. Loosely related to the author’s earlier horror novel, The Madonna of Shadows and Darkness, this collection of short stories and novellas deals with the reemergence of the Nephilim, the beings descended from rebel angels who mated with mortal women. In these pages they continue their mission to control humanity. Their chosen opponent, a somewhat bookish young man named Trent, is given a portion of the blade of the legendary knight Parsifal as his main weapon against his archenemy, the beautiful witch Doralice, the leader of the Nephilim. But their conflict has deeper psychological roots. Once she had tried to seduce Trent and gain the blade, now hidden in a sword cane. But Trent rejected her and returned to Doris, his ailing fiancée. In revenge Doralice attacks both with magic, beginning a decade-long conflict that can lead only to death. As he fights the Nephilim, Trent finds himself confronting other supernatural creatures, as well as interlopers from other dimensions, who use the turbulent times to cross over into our world. This is the framework of a collection of tales that I hope will excite you, amaze you, and keep your fingers moving the pages.

Trent

T

rent was his last name and, for practical purposes, his first name. I have heard few persons refer to him other than as Trent. I suppose he himself was responsible for this idiosyncrasy. In introductions he identified himself as Trent; he answered the phone with a customary, Trent here. Almost everyone called him simply Trent. I myself did not learn his first name until I had been with him for several months.

I am not certain of the reason for this peculiarity. Perhaps, because of the misfortune of Doris or his unfortunate involvement with Doralice, he wished to maintain a certain distance between himself and others, as if he wished to avoid involvement with anyone. Or perhaps, for some odd reason, he identified with his last name rather than his first and last name. Of course, I came to know him as well as anyone could, but I never ventured to ask him the reason for his peculiarities. He could be cordial, friendly, and even slyly humorous at times. But there were many hidden rooms in Trent’s mind, which he kept bolted. I long had the feeling that he chose carefully what he would say about himself; he was obviously cautious about expressing his feelings to others. A man with Trent’s burdens would scarcely behave normally.

He had been called to perform duties that the average person would declare impossible. If he mentioned his occupation, or perhaps his duty, openly, he would have been classified as insane. Quite frankly, he had been selected to receive the sword blade of Parsifal, the Knight of the Holy Grail, and given the task of using it to ward off forces of what I will have to call the supernatural, although their behaviors might have been natural in other dimensions—in hell, or wherever else they might have hailed from.

Trent’s stories of his adventures indeed would sound like the ravings of a madman to the average person. But I and others were with him on some of his missions. I have seen creatures and faced forces I never would have dreamed of. In fact, my entire perspective of what is real, what may be possible, has been turned on its head.

My named is David Bowman. For twenty-two years I served as a patrolman on Louisville, Kentucky’s police force until an accident forced my premature retirement. Earlier Trent had rescued me from a danger I had scarcely thought possible. We drifted into friendship, and I accompanied him on some of his adventures. After my departure from the department, with little active to do, I found myself sitting on my hands until I was fortunate enough for Trent to make me his major assistant. (Or perhaps as a part of me whispers, unfortunate enough.) How I met Trent and became involved with him you’ll learn later in these writings.

After his passing, it seemed incumbent upon on me to gather his writings and attempt to publish them. For whatever reason, Trent felt compelled to write down certain of his encounters with the supernatural as short stories. I am not certain why. If I was him, I would try to collect as much proof of these eerie happenings as possible, document them, and attempt to reveal them to the scientific world. Perhaps he was uncertain how much proof he had. Perhaps his forgone conclusion was that he would be judged a maniac. He admired Malachi Martin’s book, Hostage to the Devil. Martin was a Roman Catholic priest who published supposedly authentic accounts of five cases of demonic possession performed by different priests. But Martin wrote them as fiction, with descriptions and dialogue. He does not claim to have witnessed these exorcisms. Quite obviously questions arise as to how he could have known what happened and what was said. Some scholars believe that he himself was the priest in each encounter, but even if so, why would he choose fictional techniques to expose such bizarre happenings? On the other hand, Martin had a sound bibliography of earlier writings and was upheld by the popular self-help author/psychiatrist M. Scott Peck.

I can’t pretend to know why Martin and Trent chose fiction. Perhaps they hoped to avoid liable cases by not mentioning actual individuals or felt that fiction would reach more people or that their manuscripts be more likely to be published if they included fictional techniques. But even when the age of self-publishing came about, Trent showed little interest in completing his accumulating manuscripts. Of course, he might have feared that publicizing his conflict with the Nephilim would gain him too much unwanted attention and hinder his attempts to combat them and other forces of evil.

I have no answer to give. Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty to publish Trent’s stories and add a few sections of my own, narrations of events that he did not write about, but I witnessed along with him or alone. In that way I hope to bolster his claims. Before presenting the stories, I need to include one prefatory account. I am not certain what happened during those few momentous days during his teens. After all, I wasn’t there. Trent never did tell the story from beginning to end. I have pieced it together from casual remarks, fragmentary narrations, and anecdotes. It concerns how Trent became the Bearer of the Sword of Parsifal.

During the summer of 1968, Trent at eighteen was eagerly looking forward to beginning his freshman year at the University of Louisville. Although his father could have paid for an education at Yale, Trent had chosen to accept the scholarship offered to him by the University of Louisville and was looking forward to majoring in philosophy, although the department had only three professors. Trent felt that he would gain more personal attention there than in a larger class at a major university. Moreover, he would get to know his professors better and learn from them outside of class as well as in it.

I don’t think Trent ever intended to teach philosophy, a major that offered few other options for employment. Trent was simply fascinated by the subject and wanted to learn all he could about esoteric thought. His father loved him and indulged him and probably thought that after Trent had followed this trail of scholarly whimsy to its end, his son would devote his life to running the family’s candy business in the town and overseeing the four farms let out to tenants.

Earlier that summer, Trent had broken up with his high school sweetheart, but in August he was over his romantic disappointment. Although he had gone steady with the girl during his senior year, his feelings for her had not been deep. (He had not then met Doris.) He was eagerly looking forward to his freshman year, boning up on his knowledge of grammar and reading Will Durant’s The Story of Philosophy. Then a mysterious stranger, a little man named Winklemann entered his life and changed the story.

Mr. Winklemann was about five feet, four inches tall. Trent said that his face was almost perfectly round, with bright dark eyes and a pleasant quarter moon smile that could change to somber semicircles and straight, serious lines. More than half-bald, with wispy white hair that fluttered above the rear of his collar in the breeze, he was always dressed in a white suit (or suits) and walked with an antique-looking cane, seemingly made of pewter, but Trent learned it was forged of stronger metal. He came to call upon the Trents the very evening of his taking a room in Mrs. Aldridge’s boarding house, which sat catty-cornered across the street.

The Trent house was one of the oldest in the town. Trent’s great grandfather had built it in the late 1800s. Although the neighborhood had deteriorated somewhat, Trent’s father refused to move.

Trent and his father were sitting in wooden deck chairs on their long and wide front porch when Mr. Winklemann left the boarding house and walked diagonally across the street and began moving up the brick walkway to the porch spanning the house’s front.

Dressed in a white suit and well-polished black shoes, Mr. Winklemann paused at the foot of the steps, flashed one of his pleasant smiles, and said that since they were on the porch, he had decided to introduce himself. Trent’s father welcomed and invited him to stay. Mr. Winklemann, visibly pleased, ascended the steps. He soon was drinking lemonade, prepared by Trent’s mother, and sat in a rocking chair facing the father and son.

Mr. Trent asked him whether he was planning to stay in the town for a while.

Oh, no, I’m merely traveling through. Merely travelling through. I’ll be here for a few days, he said or something like that.

Trent’s father asked him what he did for a living.

Practically nothing now, said Winklemann. In fact, I am in the process of retiring.

Mr. Trent asked where he was from.

Sandusky, Ohio, said Mr. Winklemann. But I am not very interesting. I would prefer to talk about other things.

Such as? asked Mr. Trent.

Trent said that their strange guest did not reply immediately but took a deep swallow of the lemonade and said, Ah! A very fine lemonade. Almost makes me think of the fresh squeezed lemonade I had as a boy.

Trent’s father asked the visitor what he wished to talk about.

What would you say to the idea that the world we see about us is not all that exists?

Well, the planets exist, said Trent.

Of course, replied Mr. Winklemann. But I meant to say that the world that we see about us contains much more than we are aware of. That there are creatures, beings, entities that few people have seen. That some of these at times might even be invisible.

Trent found himself strangely intrigued, but his father said that he didn’t believe in unknown creatures unless they were unknown species of snakes or spiders in Brazil. Mr. Winklemann chuckled uneasily and said, I am afraid I mean creatures that might best be described by the word ‘supernatural.’

Then Trent said their guest took control of the conversation and, for the most part, maintained control. Winklemann said there were creatures which hide far away from mankind in caves and in jungles or cottages, but sometimes they ventured forth and were dangerous. Some of these creatures were from other dimensions and could be summoned from them. He also said that spiritual beings existed different from the angels and demons, beings that had not fallen with Lucifer yet could still choose to do evil or good. But he added that the most dangerous of all beings were the Nephilim.

"You may recall their being mentioned in Genesis: ‘…the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose.’ A few lines later the tale resumes. ‘There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bear children unto them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.’"

Winklemann remarked that it was one of the Bible’s very cryptic passages. But make no mistake. Its meaning is sinister. The sons of God are rebel angels, those who fell with Lucifer. You see, Satan was jealous because the Lord was able to create living beings and he couldn’t, so he found a way of mutating human beings by contaminating the human germplasm thorough intercourse.

Trent recalled that Mr. Winklemann’s eyes lost their twinkle during this part of their discussion; during pauses his lips formed that straight line of seriousness.

Mr. Winklemann went on to explain that during the ages, the interbreeding had mingled human genes with those of the Nephilim. All of us probably have a few cells of the rebel angels’ descendants in our blood, but some people have more than others, the strange gentleman continued. He explained that some persons inherited the capacities intended for the original hybrid offspring, such as varying degrees of telekinesis, the ability to communicate telepathically with their own kind, to sense emotions of others, the power to summon forth demonic beings, and even the capabilities of starting fires by wishing them into existence. Some people may have the ability to move objects a short distance simply by willing a pencil to spring from a desk blotter to the person’s hand. These individuals wonder at their strange abilities but have no understanding of them. Others may have inherited several powers. Some of these have been able to sense the presences of others of their kind and have joined and see humanity as an enemy to be supplanted or destroyed. Some of these people with several powers are very dangerous indeed. They currently use the ancient name, the Nephilim.

You believe what you are telling me? Trent remembered his father saying.

I’ve seen things, almost unbearable things. Things our neighbors here about would not believe, would dread to believe in. He swung his cane about in a small circle in the air.

Then as he placed its rubber tip on the wood of the porch, Trent really noticed the cane. Its surface was embossed with images. Some figures were angelic, others demonic. Near the bottom was the image of a sword piercing the skull of a dragon-like being.

Winklemann smiled as though he had just reminisced about a childhood birthday party and then abruptly rose and said that he feared he had taken up too much of their evening and headed toward the steps. Trent’s father rose and escorted him to the top step. Winklemann took a step downward and then turned to face his host. If it is not imposing, I would like to chat again with you tomorrow evening for a short space, say, about this time.

He did not wait for an answer but turned and spryly continued down the steps and headed toward the boarding house.

Trent’s father returned to his chair.

Trent found himself fascinated by Winklemann’s words. They kept replaying themselves in his mind. But his father was not pleased by their unexpected guest. He wondered whether the man was simply eccentric or crazy.

That night Trent dreamed of knights on horses battling inexplicably horrible beings, some with scaly snouts, some with tentacles, and some with teeth like sabers.

Although Trent looked forward during the day to the second visit of the bizarre gentleman, his father, after returning from work, was not keen on greeting the elderly man a second time. He considered not even sitting on the porch in his favorite chair and reading the newspaper but decided that he would be a fool to allow the old charlatan to drive him from his porch. Trent joined him in the matching wooden chair, with his copy of Will Durant’s volume.

His father whispered, Listen, if that old weirdo comes out the front door of that boarding house, we’ll get up and go inside. Your mother can tell him through the glass of the storm door that we’re busy fixing a faucet.

Fifteen minutes later, after Mr. Winklemann stepped out from the boarding house, Trent’s father merely lowered his paper and raised his eyes. He said nothing as Winklemann crossed the street and entered upon the walkway. Trent surmised that his dad’s natural bent toward courtesy had mastered his resentment.

Bidding them good evening, the elf-like man resumed his place in the rocking chair and placed one hand above the other atop the strangely embossed cane, his quaint smile again appearing. Well, have the two of you considered the tales I told you last night?

There were bizarre, Mr. Trent said, almost defiantly.

Winklemann muttered one or two uncomfortable Ha’s, slapped his left thigh, and then confronted them with a smile. I suppose, Winklemann said, I haven’t been very skillful introducing these concepts to you. He said he was not adept in speaking of serious matters. That was the first time, Trent said, that he had even heard the word adept. But Winklemann bade their patience. He told them that mankind was not at the mercy of the Nephilim and other demonic forces. Various groups, some religious orders, combatted them in the past and were still combatting them. One of the most powerful had been the knights of Monsalvat who were ministered to by the Holy Grail. They were once ruled by the knight Parsifal, who had saved them from the powers of an evil magician named Klingsor. Parsifal became their king and led them against the forces of darkness. Of course, Winklemann was drawing on Germanic versions of the story of the Grail. Wagner, I understand, had used them as the basis of his final opera Parsifal. A quaint masterpiece, Winklemann called it.

But through the centuries, as the various Christians became more victorious against their foes, these paranormal enemies began to withdraw into hiding but also into waiting, ready to emerge at the right time, perhaps secretly influencing world events, like this terrible divisive war we now have in Vietnam. Furthermore, through the ages, the orders of holy warriors began to decline in belief and numbers. The Enlightenment, he called it, had captured the attentions of capable young men and drawn their minds from the spiritual. Moreover, the order of Monsalvat, without able leadership, began to fall into factions, rivalries, so that now few of the order remained. But the magical sword of Parsifal existed and was held by the current leader of the knights of Monsalvat, even thought Monsalvat was no longer a place but a bond of men held together by their dedication.

This is all very interesting, Mr. Winklemann, said Trent’s father, but I have no reason to believe such stuff. I’m afraid I have work to do, and my son needs to prepare himself for college that begins in September.

Oh, I see, said Mr. Winklemann, rising uncomfortably. Perhaps I haven’t put things well—I’m really inexperienced at such endeavors. Perhaps, however, I could return for one more session.

Barely controlling his hostility, Trent’s father uttered that while such theories might be interesting, he and his son were very busy and hadn’t the time to discuss them.

Crestfallen, Mr. Winklemann lowered his eyes and muttered, I suppose I have made a hash of it. Well, good night and have an enjoyable tomorrow. He turned and ambled toward the boarding house.

Again, Trent dreamed of knights, dragons, gnomes, and all sorts of dangerous creatures.

The following afternoon, Trent received a telephone call from Winklemann. My boy, could it be possible for me to see you one more time? I need to inform you further about the sword. I shan’t occupy many of your moments. Since I am not welcomed at your home, could you run across the street to my room?

Despite his father’s command for him not to see the odd man again, Trent immediately fought against guilt. Something in him wanted to cross the street and desired to hear whatever the quaint visitor had further to say and needed to hear it. Without telling his mother, he slipped across the avenue.

Mr. Winklemann’s room was quite ordinary for those days: a bed, a lamp table, a radio, an armchair, and a kitchenette. He welcomed Trent and immediately took the cane from the bedspread, where it had been lying, and handed it to him. Here, he said.

Do you want me to have it? Trent said in disbelief.

Only if you truly wish it, only if you truly wish it.

Trent took it, felt the hard, embossed surface, noticing the creatures stamped upon it, and then looked into the elder man’s pleading eyes. Place your hand about the crook, the handle. Now notice the circular-shaped emblem on the surface of the cane. As you see, you can do so while easily holding the handle. Now press it—the emblem, the button.

I’m trying; it won’t move!

I’m sorry. I should have told you that you must will the button to move! Continue pressing and wish the blade to descend. Trent did so and immediately felt the emblem give beneath the pressure and heard a harsh snick.

The handle was pushed back against the flesh of his hand. A foot-and-a-half narrow blade flashed into view. Trent raised the blade, sensing that it was old but as sharp as a barber’s razor.

It is a sword cane, said Trent.

But it is more than an ordinary sword cane, my young friend. It is the last portion of the blade of Parsifal himself, fashioned into a cane’s blade.

Trent wanted to baulk at the words, but the older man’s earnest, pleading expression held him like a hand. "Yes, my boy, it has existed all these years since the knights of Monsalvat failed in their duty; it passed down through the years from generation to generation to enable the fight to go on.

You see, I am its current possessor. Therefore, you might say, I am the last of the Knights of Monsalvat.

Trent’s mouth begged for a question to ask but could utter none.

Yes, for forty years I have been the wielder of the sword. It has properties, magical properties, holy properties. Three times I have been called on to use it against unimaginable enemies. Strange, isn’t it? Me being called as the defender? But I wasn’t always gray-haired and puffy about the middle. I was lucky. I did not have to face members of the Nephilim cult themselves. But as I said last night, these quasi-Nephilim and creatures of the uncanny are becoming bolder, appearing more often. Some dire events are in the offing. Perhaps we are hastening toward the end of time.

And you want me to take over from you? Trent said that he couldn’t believe the words he spoke. They seem to come from the world of his curious dreams.

A higher power does.

But why, why was I chosen?

"I can but guess. You are young, intelligent, have independent wealth, so you don’t have to earn your daily bread. At heart you are not a businessman. Courage must abide in you and some sort of goodness and, of course, belief.

"Let me hasten. The sword itself has supranatural properties. It can wound, even kill, most supernatural beings; it can protect the bearer from supernatural spying and telepathic intrusion. But I have little time to go into these details. Your mother could have seen you entering this house and could come after us!

It’s essential for me to say that if you should choose to be the bearer, you may not be called upon to act. However, given our times, I suspect that you could be called upon often. Your state, Kentucky, seems to be attracting many of these unnatural creatures and individuals. After all, it is still primarily rural, has only one large city, Louisville., and a number of seldom-traveled back roads. It is not like the East Coast, where you can travel from town to town without seeing any greenery.

Trent said, What if I don’t accept the sword?

I trust I shall be directed to another candidate worthy of the duty.

He urged Trent not to decide then, but to wait, consider the offer, and mull it over. And pray. He asked for Trent, if possible, to make the decision in about twenty-four hours. He said that he could tarry perhaps for several days more but doing so would not be strategic. He would be waiting with the cane for Trent on a bench on