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CHAPTER VI 

When Martell got back to his apartment that afternoon he found his door unlocked. A woman's voice said, "Wipe your feet," as he entered. 

He'd forgotten that this was Minna Gunderson's day to clean. He always forgot, though it happened every Thursday. 

Minna, the pastor's sister, a large-boned, graying woman, took care of the big house she shared with Harry, and cleaned for others as well. "Just to keep busy," she said. Martell knew they needed the money. 

He found her drying a frying pan in the kitchenette. "Dishwashing isn't in your job description," he told her. 

"Yes, well it seems like I get started and I don't know where to stop." 

Martell wandered into the living room. "I'll never figure out how you manage to get everything clean without moving all these books. You must number them and reassemble them in order, like an archaeologist." 

Minna said, "This place is a hogpen," hanging the dishtowel up neatly. "You ought to put those books on shelves." 

"I don't have shelves enough. I don't have walls enough." 

"Sometimes I think you enjoy living in a mess." 

"Well it's an intellectual mess, like Sherlock Holmes' rooms in Baker Street. All my life I've aspired to shabby gentility. And I can honestly say I've read almost all the books." 

Minna rubbed a spot on the refrigerator with a washcloth and said, "Maybe if you read less books you'd have more energy to go out and find a nice girl." 

"There aren't any girls anymore, Minna, nice or otherwise. They're Femo-American Persons. They're not a sex, they're a political party. If I want politics I can go to Faculty —." 

His stomach twisted. Blast! Can't I even make a joke? 

Minna sighed and shook her cloth out. "You've got an answer for everything, Carl Martell. Maybe you're too smart for your own good. All these books, and you don't know a thing about life." 

"You may be right." He was leaning against an armchair, his knees weak. 

She hung the cloth beside the dishtowel. "Well, I'm done here." 

"Hold on a minute — this is my week to pay you, isn't it?" 

"I won't say no." 

Martell went into his spare bedroom/office and wrote a check. 

When he brought it out, Minna was looking around at the walls. "You know, I've always thought there was something missing from this place," she said. 

"I know, I know." 

"Not that. I just noticed. You haven't got a single picture of your family here." 

Martell looked at her. "That's right," he said. "Here's your check. Tell Harry I'll pick him up at 6:00." 

"The Oski thing, yes." 

"We're big fans." 

"I've tried to read his poems. They seemed sick to me." 

"Few Scandinavian writers have ever been accused of mental health. But Oski's poems are brave and beautiful. Ordinary people can enjoy them, and even the critics don't hold it against him. He's done Christiania a big honor by coming. We'd be ungracious to ignore it." 

"I didn't say I didn't understand him. I said I don't like him. You do what you want." 

"Thanks for your work, Minna." 

"You're welcome, Carl. How's your hand feeling?" 

"Cut and stitched. Can I drive you home?" 

"No, thanks. I like to walk." 

When she was gone he stood before the painting of a Viking on his living room wall, perhaps the most valuable thing he owned. "Sigfod Oski. Thank God I'm out of trouble and free to enjoy this." 

* * *

Minna found her brother in the kitchen, making a turkey sandwich and a mess. "Carl said he'd pick you up at six," she told him as she wiped the counter in front of him. 

"I can clean up after myself," Harry said. 

"I'm not a young woman, Harry. I can't wait." She rinsed the cloth and hung it in its place. 

"Carl is a nice enough young man," she said, sitting in a kitchen chair. "He needs to get out more." 

"He's a man with a sorrow, Minna. He's the kind that don't give their hearts lightly, and once committed he sticks. Men and women like that sometimes have a hard time in this world." He took a bite out of his sandwich and looked at her. She was straightening the tablecloth. Its pattern had faded, but it was immaculate. "He needs our prayers and our friendship." 

"He needs a kick in the pants." 

Harry started to say something but took another bite instead. He thought it was a sad world, and saddest of all for people who understood things. 

* * *

Martell sat watching the 24-hour news on television. He was enjoying the news strangely. There was very little outright lying in it, which rather surprised him, but also very little certainty, except for the man who did the editorial. He had to hit the MUTE button on the remote when the commercials came on. 

The announcer said, "In a controversial decision, the Supreme Court today refused to consider a challenge to the DRA, the Definition of Religion Act, which will secure First Amendment rights only to members of those religious groups which pass certain legal tests and properly register with the Federal Government. 

"President Trang, who fought hard for the DRA, made this statement at a specially called news conference:"  

The face of the president appeared on the screen. "Today is a watershed in American history. This is a day that will live in posterity as the moment that America's precious heritage of religious liberty was secured for all generations.  

"Every American has suffered through the terrible conflicts which have torn our society in the past. Con men, cults and terrorists have used the First Amendment as a shield by which to prey upon their neighbors, upon the ignorant, upon the old and the gullible.  

"We could not allow this situation to continue. Yet how could we deal with these challenges while still preserving our heritage of freedom of conscience, a freedom which, I might mention, is especially precious to me.  

"The Definition of Religion Act untangles this puzzle, and does it in a way which is uniquely American and scrupulously true to our Constitution and our traditions.  

"The answer is essentially very simple. We define religion.  

"A broad consensus has been growing in our country as to what constitutes a true religion in the American tradition. Through the DRA, the elements of that consensus enable us to protect and preserve true religious faith.  

"What is a genuine religion?  

"A genuine religion teaches openmindedness. A genuine religion allows its followers to find their own moral compass, and accepts and affirms all sincere decisions and lifestyles.  

"A genuine religion teaches spirituality. It does not concern itself with matters of this world. It does not get involved in political questions or meddle in government. It makes no claim of historical fact.  

"A true religion preaches a universal message. It does not claim to have a corner on truth, but recognizes the equal validity of all opinions and beliefs.  

"All true believers, those who share the open-minded and generous beliefs outlined in the DRA, are protected by this new law. The sectarians, the fanatics, the bigots and the fundamentalists will lose the constitutional weapon by which they have preyed on their neighbors and perpetrated their violence and hate.  

"Because of the courage of Congress, which passed this Act, and the Supreme Court, which has upheld it, every American can look forward to a safer, happier and more spiritual America —"  

His phone rang. He set down his cup of coffee and turned the volume down. 

"Hello, is this Mr. Carl Martell?" A woman's voice.  

He said it was. 

"My name is Victorious Staff. I'm calling from W.O.W."  

"Wow?" 

"The Way of the Old Wisdom. You must have heard of us."  

"Yes, of course." 

"Mr. Martell, we've been told that you have some knowledge of the Viking carvings called runes."  

"I've given them some study. I'm not an expert." 

"We've found a stone on our property which we believe to be carved in runes. We realize that any claims we make about it are going to be suspect. That's why we'd like to have a scholar's opinion before we speak to the press."  

"I'm sorry, I can't help you. I'm not a runologist, or an archaeologist either. I'm not at all qualified to judge the sort of thing you seem to be describing, and I wouldn't try." 

"I can assure you that we did not forge this stone."  

"I'm sure you didn't," said Martell, and he was. At least he was sure the girl speaking to him knew nothing of any hoax. "But somebody almost certainly did. Have you ever heard of the Kensington Runestone?" 

"Somebody mentioned something...."  

"The Kensington Runestone was found in western Minnesota back in the 1880's. It raised a stir then, but all the experts today agree that it's a fraud, and it's a fact that there were a lot of Scandinavians with romantic notions around back then who could have carved the thing. You've probably found a copycat." 

"We're not asking for a judgment, Mr. Martell. We can't even tell whether these carvings are runes or not. We'd like you to tell us that, if that's all you can do. We promise not to use your name."  

"I'm, uh... I'm sorry. I can't be associated with something like this. It would be professional suicide." 

"Please reconsider. We're just asking you to take a look. Aren't you just a little curious? About us, if not about the stone?"  

There was a devious edge to her voice, but Martell found that in many people. He discounted it. He didn't expect perfect candor any more than perfect facial symmetry. 

"Can I think about it and call you back?" he asked. 

"I'm sorry. We don't have a phone. I'm calling from a pay phone at a gas station. I apologize for the short notice, but I need your answer tonight."  

"You should be selling real estate," he said. "All right, so when do you want me to come out? It can't be tonight. I have to go listen to Sigfod Oski." 

"Sigmund Ostey? Who's that?"  

* * *

A counselling session with a depressed teenager had gone longer than expected, and Harry was dressing for the evening as quickly as he could, praying as his fingers fumbled. He'd lost two teenagers this year to the Happy Endings clinic, plus a woman in her twenties who'd left behind a dumbfounded husband and a new baby. This on top of the sick and the old who'd simply lost hope. He used to picket the place when he could find the time, but the clinics were federally protected now. 

When Rory Buchan appeared at the front door Minna said, "Well, I suppose you can talk to him, but he's in a hurry." 

"That's OK, Miss Gunderson. I just want to ask a question and maybe borrow a book." Her look in response told him he'd be held personally responsible for any unadvertised delays. He followed her back through the hall to Harry's bedroom/office, half the parlor partitioned off to save him climbing stairs. 

Harry was standing in front of a full-length mirror, struggling with his clerical collar as if it were the iron variety found in dungeons, when Minna knocked. 

"Come in, I'm decent." 

"I won't keep you," said Rory when Minna had left them. "I wondered if you had any books I could borrow about the Canaanites." 

"The Canaanites?" Harry twisted his torso to look at him. 

"Yeah. In the Old Testament. Is something wrong?" 

Harry turned back to his reflection. "No, I'm just trying to think what books to recommend. It's a subject that gets ignored a great deal. I ignore it myself, whenever I can." 

"Why's that?" Rory perched on the arm of an easy chair. 

"Because whenever I come to that part of the Bible, it turns my stomach. Why the interest?" 

"Just something somebody said. He has a theory. The whole thing seems weird to me, and I wanted to check the facts." 

"Well let's see." Harry left one end of the white collar tab sticking out and limped to a bookcase. "This might help, and there might be something in this one, and I think there's a chapter in this, but be sure to return it, Rory — it's been out of print since before you were born." 

Rory accepted the pile of volumes. "Thanks." 

"You'll have to hunt down the material you want — none of these has more than a few pages on the subject. But they might help." 

"I'm kind of surprised to hear you say that part of the Bible turns your stomach. I thought you believed the Bible." 

Harry leaned against the case. "Of course I believe the Bible," he said. "I don't believe it in the nitpicking way the Fundamentalists do, but the Bible is the most realistic book ever written. Just as some things in life turn my stomach, some things in the Bible turn my stomach. I'd be suspicious if they didn't." 

Rory thought about it. "Maybe that solves the whole problem." 

Harry lowered himself into the desk chair. "No, not really. When men act brutally, I'm not surprised. But when God acts brutally, and tells His people to act brutally, that shakes the very footings of my life. I'ts something I struggle with. 

"If I were one of the young pastors they're turning out today, it'd be no problem. I'd just say, 'This is one of the many instances when the Old Testament writers didn't know what they were talking about. God never commanded anything of the sort.' That's too far for me to go though, and in any case it doesn't really solve the problem. I have to face it again, in a more terrible fashion, every time a child dies. And they die all the time." 

Rory shifted the books under one arm. "Well, maybe I can figure something out. Or maybe my friend's right." 

"You'll make news if that's so. What does your friend say?" 

"I'd rather study up a little before I talk about it. It's kind of weird." 

"That doesn't disqualify it. God moves in weird ways, His wonders to perform." 

"Yeah. Well. I'll let you get back to dressing. Thanks for the books. I'll bring them back." 

"You always do. That makes you almost unique. Good night, Rory." 

"Good night, Pastor. Praise the Lord." 

"Amen." 

Rory left. As he drove to work, he turned on the news on his car radio. 

"The International Olympic Committee today announced it had come to a compromise agreement with the Worldwide Siblinghood of the Physically Challenged, which has been demanding that all Olympic events be made accessible to the disabled. Under the terms of the agreement, physically challenged athletes will be given compensation points — not to be called handicaps — which will qualify them to win medals in all regular events, although their medals will carry a special logo identifying them as special condition awards.  

"A representative of WSPC said that the compromise was a step in the right direction, but that the fight will go on. He said, 'We will not rest until all vestiges of ableism are removed from the games, and Olympic medals have nothing whatever to do with strength, speed, agility or coordination.'  

"In California there was fierce debate today over a proposal in the state legislature which would allow convicted criminals to sue their victims. Under the provisions of the proposed law, if a court determines that a victim showed insufficient vigilence and so enticed the criminal to take advantage of them, they would be liable to pay the convicted criminal damages not in excess of...."  

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