Carl vs. The Nazis Ch.6 The Immortals

"Carl vs. the Nazis Ch. 5 The Chase" 
Carl Meets the Immortals

When I saw the light flickering in the Manor House, the fanciest of the resort’s hotels, on Christmas Eve, I thought it was Damon’s plan of revenge. He was trying to lure me in and do who-knows-what to me. Certainly it would be a stupid cartoonish plan. Perhaps a bear trap in the middle of a table with a bag of chips in the center; a big hole in the floor covered by a carpet and sprinkled with candy bars, or a bucket of syrup propped over a door with a string attached. The temptation to try to outsmart him was irresistible.
I crept to the far end of the building. I climbed up the fire escape into the attic, confident no one would follow me over the rotted rafters. The cobwebs stuck in my eyes and mouth and I felt the spiders running across my face and neck. I was glad the darkness stopped me from seeing the animals rustling past me. I lowered myself on the dumbwaiter to the kitchen, near the dining room. I heard music and laughter. From the kitchen I peered into the room. Smiling at me from a leather easy chair and holding me with his mesmerizing stare was that ancient man I met at the spring pond in July.
“Come on down and say hello, Carl!” he said. If this was a trap, it was a cheerful one. Hiding seemed foolish. I walked downstairs and offered him my hand. He gave it a powerful shake.
“I’m Thomas Parr,” he said with a warm smile. “We’ve been hoping you would drop by.”
The fieldstone fireplace blazed merrily. A cluster of tables was decorated with white linen, scented candles and poinsettias. Pine festoons decorated the walls. An ancient woman wearing an evening dress played carols on the piano, while Parr, with two other men and three women sat around the fireplace. They were very old and very wrinkled.
On the coffee table in front of them were snacks elegantly arranged on hotel china, but no one seemed to be eating. In their wineglasses was a thick purple fluid. The men wore faded suits, which fit loosely on their wiry bodies. Nearby was a small Christmas tree lit with candles.
“We call ourselves The Immortals,” said Thomas. “This is our annual Christmas party.” I recognized his voice. This was the man who had saved me from Damon by leading him into the septic pool.
“The Immortals?” I asked. “Is that a musical group, or do you folks do drama together?”
Thomas laughed. “No, although all of us can play music. We are refugees from big-city life who came here to live forever.”
“Oh,” I said, nodding my head and trying to smile sincerely. My dad always told me to respect the very old, even if they are full of senile nonsense.
“I can see you’re skeptical,” he said. “That’s OK”
“I was too when I joined,” chimed in the youngest-looking of them. Although still old like the others, she had a compact, athletic body and her muscles had the plumpness of youth. Her silver hair was cut short and in tight ringlets.
“This is Angela,” said Thomas. “Our newest recruit to the club.”
“How nice,” I said. “How long ago did you join?”
“Seventy-two years,” she replied. “I was twenty-seven when I joined.”
“But that would make you . . .
“Ninety-nine,” she proudly asserted.
“But that’s almost impossible,” I replied.
“This is a lot to take in,” said a long-faced man with red hair at the side of his temples. He wore loose-fitting tweeds and a sloppy lavender bow tie. Freckles covered the top of his head. His nose was slim, long and freckled, giving him the appearance of a rare tropical bird. “I am Dr. Waller, the physician here. May I offer you some refreshment?”
“What are you having?”
“Blueberry wine from August’s harvest. It’s easy to make. We just get buckets of mooshed blueberries and leave them uncovered as they rot. We keep skimming off the stuff that grows on top, and finally pour it through a sieve.
“Uh . . . That sounds interesting, but no thank you.”
“Not to your taste, eh? We’re also having fiddleheads. We kept them fresh in the freezer.”
“Fiddleheads?”
“Fiddleheads are baby ferns,” said an elegant, tall woman with a high forehead and long jaw. She stood straight and tall that it seemed she would break if she ever bent. “We picked them in May. By the way, I’m Gwen,” she added, extending her hand. I took it gently, fearing I would harm someone who seemed so brittle. She squeezed my hand so hard I winced.
“Pleased to meet you. Fiddle heads sound delicious, but I think I’ll pass,” I said, eyeing the decanter of purple paste and the pile of forest on the platter.

"Carl vs. the Nazis Ch. 7 Longevity"