Featured Article » Fiction

The Future Is Where You Started

Written by Terry Howard

The village of Lasnamae

Not far from Reval (modern Tallinn), Estonia

Spring 1637

"What do you mean you are leaving!" Jaan screamed at the top of his lungs.

Martin did not cringe or look away. He smiled. Actually he smirked, and he chuckled just a little. Jaan's rants and rages were no longer a significant factor in his life. His time as a journeyman was over. He lifted the bundle with his personal possessions. "Just what I said. Good-bye. I'm leaving."

"But . . . it's been arranged. The guild has agreed. You have agreed."

At these words Martin's smirk broadened.

"We have it all worked out," Jaan said. "You will stay on and run the shop. We will take on a batch of new apprentices. I will leave the shop to you and when I die they will make you a master."

"No thanks," Martin said. "I don't want to go broke and starve."

"What are you talking about? This shop has made a good living for decades."

"Yes, it has. But it's over. Open your eyes, you foolish old man! In this modern day and age a papermaker's shop is obsolete. Can't you see that the guilds are finished! Finished! It is nothing but a good way to go broke. You can't compete with the Kymi mills and there are going to be more and more of them every year. My family has arranged a bride for me and her family has arranged a job at the Kymi mill. I will learn to be a miller instead of a papermaker."

"You can't do this!" Jaan yelled turning red. "It has been arranged!"

"You can't stop me. I'm a journeyman and I am free to leave."

Martin smiled and listened as Jaan Rummu cursed and ranted with more volume than a windstorm and more color than a rainbow. Then the man picked up part of a broken frame from a paper screen and Martin quit smiling. "Yell and scream all you want, old man. But if you try to strike me I will hit you back. I am not your wife or an apprentice. Before I left I just wanted to say thanks for all the miserable years. Living here has been hell, especially since your wife died. She was the only redeeming thing about you. But I am through and I am out of here."

"You won't work in paper making ever again. The guild will stop you."

"Just like they've stopped the Kymi mills?"

"They won't be selling that paper in Reval."

"Do you really think the papermaker guild is going to tell the printer's guild that they are going to have to go out of business because they have to charge twice as much for a book since they can't use the cheaper paper? Or are you expecting both guilds to tell people they can't buy books from outside of town? If that was all there was to it, they might manage, at least for awhile. But do you really think the guild is going to tell Count Niels Brahe, the governor-general of Mainz, where his wife can and can't sell her paper? I told you! The guilds are finished. Holding out town citizenship like a carrot to a donkey is just as finished, if only people would look!

"When I am ready to make paper, I will go wherever I need to go, someplace with a good water flow for the wheel, and deep water for the dock, and a plentiful supply of trees for the pulp. My new father-in-law is putting together a prospectus group. When I am trained as a miller they will be ready to build a mill and a village if they have to. What do I care about the guild? Its day is over. It is as close to being dead as you are, you nasty old goat. The mills are the future. Anyone but a blind, foolish idiot can see that. Your way of paper making, one sheet at a time, in a paper shop, is in the past. It's dead or it will be when you are. I am moving forward into the future."

"You ungrateful pup! If you had been my apprentice I would have kicked the crap out of you and taught you some respect."

Martin laughed. "I saw you try that with your apprentices after your wife died. That is why you don't have them anymore. Try it. Go ahead. If trying doesn't kill you, I'll leave you on the floor crying like a baby. I'm bigger and stronger than you are. I'm not your wife or some helpless child. I won't put up with it."

Jaan turned red. "I should . . ."

"You should what? Old man?"

"I should get my gun and put an end to your insolence once and for all."

"You don't have a gun. You borrow one for the militia musters."

"I can buy another."

"Yes, you can. But I won't be here so you will have to find me." Martin picked up his bundle.

"But . . . what am I going to do?"

"Frankly, I don't know and I don't care. You will probably keep making paper until you can't sell it and then you will probably start drinking heavily again. I suspect that this time you will drink yourself to death. If it's convenient I will come to the funeral and help carry you to your grave. But most likely I will still be in Kymi learning to be a miller. So, good-bye. I will look you up in hell, if I don't manage to avoid it."

The last words Martin heard as he walked out were, "I'm going to get a gun, I'm going to follow you to Kymi or wherever you go. When I get to Kymi I'm going to kill that damned foreigner who built the mills and then I'm going to kill you."

Martin did not take it seriously. It was just another rant by a man much given to ranting. He was confident he had heard the last of Master Jaan Rummu's voice.

A few months later

"What in hell do you mean you can't buy my paper?" Jaan screamed at the top of his lungs.

"I can't buy it because I can't use it!" The printer yelled right back.

Jaan's first blast of rage thinned out just a bit. Now he was only yelling at about half throttle, "Your grandfather bought paper from my master when I was a new apprentice. Your father bought my paper and complained for years that I wasn't producing enough. I always told him I could make more, faster, if he wasn't so picky about the quality."

Jaan's volume eased up a bit more. "What are you using? Is it that new paper from Kymi? Kymi paper is made out of wood pulp. The papermaker's guild voted. They will not allow wood pulp paper to be sold in Reval. This is linen rag. It's better. You can see that for yourself."

The printer sighed. At least the old man wasn't screaming any more. "Yes, Jaan, you are quite right. The papermakers' guild voted to ban it. But, the printers' guild voted to ignore the ban and Countess Anna Marketta Bielke's salesman didn't even bother to vote. He just stopped in and asked how much paper I wanted. The papermakers took the printers before the town council asking the council to enforce the ban on imported paper. The town council voted in favor of the printer's guild after we pointed out that you couldn't keep us fully supplied anyway, so we would have to import some paper or print fewer copies.

"Your paper is better quality paper. So what? Kymi paper is cheaper and it's good enough. Look, if you'll sell this lot to me at the Kymi price I'll take it . . ."

The printer watched the papermaker start to blow up and held up his hand to forestall Jaan's explosive expression of outrage. ". . . this time, because we had a long standing implied contract. I'll set it aside, maybe some day I'll do a print run of bibles or something special.

"But right now, I've got an open order that will keep me busy for the rest of the year and there will be more orders after that as long as I keep the price down and make my deliveries on time. The customer is perfectly happy with Kymi paper and won't pay more for better. Kymi stock cost me half as much as I was paying you. The price I quoted the buyer reflects that. I'm not going to cut into my profit margin to buy better paper. I don't need to. And, besides, I don't have enough of a margin to do it.

"That's my best and final offer. Take it or take your paper and get out. Either way, there is no point in you bringing me any more. I don't want it, I can't use it, and I won't buy it."

"I can get a better price than that across the street," Jaan objected.

"No, you cannot. But if you want to try go ahead. He prints broad-sheets. He's using something the countess' salesman calls newsprint. I know for a fact that this is the best price you're going to get anywhere in Reval. If you don't believe me, go check. If you can find a better market, I'll be happy to sell it back to you at cost."

"But the guild has set the price for first quality linen rag paper at over twice what you want to pay me for it!"

The printer shrugged. "Take it or leave it. I really don't care."

"But at that price I can't make a living. That isn't enough to pay my rent and put food on the table. What am I supposed to do?"

"Not my problem," the printer said. "I've got work to do. That's the price. Take it and get out or get out and take your paper with you. Either way, I don't care."

"So, I've got to find a printer that wants to print Bibles."

The young printer snorted. "Good luck. My new supplier told me it won't be long before they would be coming out with a product line just for Bibles and such. He said it would be acid free, whatever that means, and he said it would be better than anything I've ever seen. Of course he's exaggerating, but I'm sure it will be good enough and it's sure to be cheaper than handmade paper."

"I'm dead! I'm going to starve. I might as well buy a pistol and blow my brains out in style," Jaan complained.

"You can do that or you can find some other way to make a living. I don't care. You're leaving now. Are you leaving with my coins or your paper? "

****

Just down the street Jaan approached the sign hanging over a door reading, "Grantville-Style Barbequed Ribs." He'd been looking forward to a celebratory meal of "falling off the bone tender" ribs in a sweet and spicy tomato sauce with potatoes cut in strips and fried in hot grease. The little hole-in-the-wall shop had opened last year. Then it expanded to the left for a dining area and later to the right for more dining area. It was lunch time and the place was packed with a line waiting.

Jaan walked past. He did not want to wait. He had nothing to celebrate. What he really wanted was to get drunk. Farther down the street was the tavern where he had stopped for years to get a beer and a meal before heading home after having sold his paper. It was still there. Only two things had changed since he had last been there. One was the size of the crowd. The place was fuller than he had ever seen it. The other change was the menu.

"Jaan!" The jovial publican's cheery greeting filled the air when the papermaker walked through the door. "I thought you'd died." This might well be true and not just a social amenity, considering the papermaker's age. "I haven't seen you in ages. Where have you been?"

Jaan didn't answer. His attention was caught by a sign hanging on the back wall. Grantville Barbequed Ribs sold here. "You're cooking ribs now?"

"No. I send the boy down the alley for takeout," the last word phrase was odd sounding being a translation of an Amideutsch word set. "We get priority service." He did not mention the running tab and the volume discount. "And you get a better choice of side dishes, wines and beers and a quieter place to eat. You should try them. They really are as good as they're touted as being."

"I came here to get drunk."

"Are you celebrating? The ribs are good for celebrating."

"No. I have nothing to celebrate."

"Oh, well if you're looking to forget, one taste of these ribs and your troubles will flee from the pleasure."

Jaan confided, "I'm thinking about buying a pistol and blowing my brains out."

The publican didn't even blink. "Well, that calls for a special last meal. You really do deserve to experience these barbequed ribs before you die. Have a seat, I'll get you a draft of that dark beer you like and some fresh-from-the-oven bread while the boy fetches your meal."

The publican set the beer and the bread on the table and then sat himself down also. "Now, what's the problem? You look to be in good health. You are old but far from worn out. You've got your teeth, your eyes are clear, all four limbs are sound. You're hale and you look hardy enough. What is this talk of blowing your brains out? Is your life really that bad?"

"I'm a papermaker. After a lifetime of buying everything I made, the printer down the street just told me he wouldn't be buying any more of my paper. That damned mill in Kymi has put me out of business! The damned guild isn't going to do anything about it. I'm too old to start over."

"So you're just going to give up and blow your brains out without even trying? What about the people who are depending on you? Are you just going to leave them to fend for themselves?"

Jaan snorted. "My wife died. The kids are dead or married and gone. Shoot, even the dog died. My last journeyman just walked out on me. Nobody is going to give an apprentice into my keeping at my age. I won't live long enough to finish training them. I'm out of business. I might as well end it quick instead of starving to death."

The publican nodded in understanding and agreement. He'd run the same equation recently and came up with very similar results. "Sometimes, life isn't worth it anymore. That ribs place had me all but out of business. Even my old regular customers were going there instead."

Jaan squirmed a bit in guilt.

"I don't blame them. The food is damned good. Then one day, when I was standing in line . . . Yes, even I was eating there occasionally . . . I was thinking about burning the place down. I think I would have one moonless night if I had thought we could get the fire put out before my place burned too. I had pretty much decided that it didn't matter if I burned out because I was out of business anyway. Then I heard someone complaining about not having anywhere to sit down. And someone else complained back to him about them having only small beer when he wanted wine and about the lack of bread. So I told them to get their ribs to go. The rib place, for a price, will wrap the ribs in paper so you can take them home. So I told these two fellows to get their ribs to go and come buy my wine and bread and sit down in peace and quiet.

"The next day I went down the alley and talked to the owner. Now I send the boy down the alley with the covered plates and he carries them back filled with hot ribs and French potatoes. They fill my orders first. Sometimes, when they are busy, you can actually get your ribs faster here than there. The owner's happy because he's got more seating and doesn't have to pay for it. The customers are happy because they can sit down in peace and we've got a selection of beers and wines and side dishes the ribs place does not have. Why the owner even gave me the recipe for a cabbage salad called coleslaw that he said is supposed to go with the ribs and potatoes but he's never had time to do anything with it. It's one of my best selling items and some of the customers come here rather than there because I've got it and he doesn't. I'm happy because business is good again. In truth, it has never been better. The only person who is unhappy is the boy who has to go out in the cold and the rain, but he should be happy about having a job at all."

"I never thought that," Jaan said, thoughtfully. "I could burn the print shop down. Better still, I could go to Kymi and burn the mill down. That would work. They'd rebuild but I'd be back in business for a year or two."

"Haven't you heard?" the publican asked. "Someone already tried to burn the Kymi mill."

"No, I didn't hear about it. If I can't burn it down, I can still kill the foreigner who runs the mill and the worthless, lying, cheating, journeyman who walked out on me when I was going to give him the shop. It would only be justice. He's stolen my livelihood after all."

"Jaan, quit talking foolishness. Here's your meal. See, I told you it was quicker here."

****

"I wish to buy a pistol."

The proprietor looked the customer over. The man was clearly not walking a straight line. The gunsmith shrugged. So the man was drunk. So what? He made and sold guns. There was no law against selling one to a drunk and drunks often forgot to bargain. "Certainly sir, do you want an old-fashioned wheel-lock? We have a nice selection of used ones, and I've got two new ones left. Or, would you prefer a new Grantville-style flintlock? Or better still, I can sell you a French-style cap-lock."

"I don't care about the lock. I just want to buy a pistol."

"Sir, a gun consists of the lock, the stock, and the barrel. When you buy a gun you buy all three, already put together. Now here is a wheel-lock. These are the cheapest guns I've got in stock." This was true. He could get a good bit more money for the others. "First you load a powder charge . . ." He began his demonstration.

The old man started to say something, but the gunsmith didn't want to listen to a drunk. "This is a Grantville-style flintlock. You charge the powder and the ball, prime the pan, cover it, cock the hammer and point the pistol, then you pull the trigger. If you kept the powder dry it goes off. This is most of what I am making these days."

"I . . ." the old drunk started.

The salesman kept talking. "I've got a few of the French percussion cap pistols. But the caps are expensive. I have to import them and they are hard to get. Still, of the three it's the easiest to use and it's also the most dependable. That is to say, it is the least likely to misfire and not go off. You don't have to worry about your priming powder getting damp. It's the simplest of the three to use. It is also the most expensive to buy and to use, but if you aren't going to use the gun more than once or twice it's the best . . ."

Jaan finally got his thick tongue around the words he was trying to get out and he interrupted the sales pitch. "I know which end of pistol goes clack snap and which end goes boom. Just sell me a damned pistol!"

The gunsmith handed Jaan the most expensive pistol in the shop and named a price.

As Jaan left, the proprietor smiled. He loved selling guns to drunks. You could sell them anything and at twice what they'd pay sober.

****

"This is it sir, Myllyla. If you need a drink there are several taverns in the village." The sea captain addressed his passenger in German since that was the language the man used when he boarded. He took the elbow of the boat's last passenger in his hand and headed the man toward the gang plank. The fellow was slow about getting off the boat. The captain wondered if the old man was addled, reluctant, just in the throes of being hung-over or, perhaps, all of the above. He had certainly been drunk enough when he booked passage and boarded. Then, too, wine was the only luggage he brought on board. It had been a storm-tossed journey. Being seasick is bad enough. Being seasick and hung-over is unspeakable.

"If you want to go back, we leave in the morning. But you will need to pay for another passage. You can get a room for tonight. I suggest the Lomailla Majatalo. Odd name that. The foreign millwright owns it; so I guess that explains the odd name.

"Although, why a 'holiday' suggests a place to sleep makes no sense to me. But he's a foreigner and foreigners are strange, aren't they? Anyway, they have a fine bath house, and flush plumbing. Do you know what that is? I didn't the first time I stayed there. It's a chamber pot that empties itself. The beds are clean and the food is good if you want something strange and new. I eat there when we are here. They've got French potatoes and Grantville ribs like that place in Reval. I like the ones in Reval better, but these are good. They've got a beef sandwich named after Hamburg which is not bad. There is an open-faced cheese sandwich named after that town in Italy with the leaning tower. My favorite is the dish of round noodles in a red sauce with balls of meat that isn't named for anywhere at all. The beer is not bad either."

The captain turned loose of the man's elbow at the head of the off ramp. "That's the Lomailla Majatalo there." He pointed.

A still hung-over Jaan Rummu disembarked in the bustling riverside town whose dock thrust out into the waters of the Kymi River within sight of the mill complex. The mills had their own docks which were visible from the new town's crowded and busy quay.

For want of a better idea, Jaan headed where he had been pointed. He could use a beer or three. Besides, now that he was on land and his head wasn't spinning, Grantville ribs and French potatoes sounded better with each step.

****

Martin did a double take and turned pale.

Petteri asked, "What's wrong?"

"That man!" Martin pointed at the disheveled graybeard ambling past on the other side of the street. "That is Jaan Rummu. He is the master I was a journeyman under."

"What's he doing in Myllyla?" Peter asked.

"You can be sure it's nothing good."

"Why?"

"Look at the way he's walking. Sober, master Rummu only knows one speed and I had to half run to keep up with him. Sober he's an asinine idiot . . . mostly, anyway. He has a wild temper. He will fly off the handle and yell and scream and throw things at you over anything, everything and nothing. You'd think the very sound of his voice would flay you alive. But two minutes later he would be over it, normally. But when he'd been drinking, look out. It doesn't stop with yelling and screaming. After his ...