Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories (38 page)

“’Ang on, ’Arry,” said old Doctor Birley. He had that Newfoundlander tendency to drop his
h
’s and add them back on words that shouldn’t have them. “It might be plausible that h’one man didn’t ’ave vaccination scars or dental work. I meself was vaccinated in ’72, but I don’t ’ave a scar. But h’all
four
bodies, plus Madoc? The h’odds of that are right slim. Unless they were h’all raised in the backwoods, of course. But a person who ’as the wherewithal to pull off an ’oax like this wouldn’t be so isolated from society. Or do you think someone planned this for forty years?”

“I’ll admit the boat is the work of a meticulous forger.” Connon passed out some photographs of the ship and items found aboard. “The design’s consistent with what we know about twelfth-century ships. A Viking longship with a high prow, carved with a lion’s head. That’s an interesting point. You might have expected the red dragon typically associated with Wales, but the Lions of Gwynedd were in use in the Gwynedd arms, up until the time of the Tudors.”

I set aside a picture of a twisted iron nail and studied the weather-worn red lion’s head that Professor Connon described.

“I was expecting a coracle,” Philip Liu interjected. “I was reading Severin’s
The Brendan Voyage
about the seaworthiness of ox hide boats, and whether they were used to reach North America.”

Connon shook his head. “That was sixth-century Ireland. By the twelfth century, the Welsh made alliances with Norse raiders, and there were Norse settlements in Wales. Legend has it that the
Gwennan Gorn
, Madoc’s ship, was made from oak, but held together with stag’s horn instead of iron. The seafaring myths of those times warned of magnetic islands, which would have spelled doom to ships built with iron nails. The ship’s authentic in that respect. Nice touch, that. However, I have concrete proof that it’s all an elaborate hoax.” He showed us a photograph of a pipe. “One of the artefacts recovered from the ship. Note the five-petal white rose on top of the five-petal red, stamped on its heel.”

Philip recognized it. “A Tudor rose.”

“Right!
Henry the Seventh created it to symbolize the union of the red rose of Lancaster and the white rose of York. But the Tudors didn’t begin their reign until 1485. If Madoc’s from the twelfth century, where did this anachronism come from?” Connon asked.

“Maybe he stopped off to have a smoke,” Rebecca joked.

Everyone laughed, but an intriguing idea came to mind. “Why not?” I said. “We’re thinking a single trip. Maybe it’s not his first and only trip through time?”

Connon snorted. “We’re
scientists
! The very idea of time-travel . . .”

“It’s not impossible,” Philip said. “Einstein’s theory of relativity allows for time-travel in the forward direction. Time dilation will keep a man from aging as fast, if he’s too close to a serious gravity well. Who knows? I’m starting to wonder if he isn’t the genuine article!”

Connon shook his head. “You’re on your own. I won’t jeopardize my reputation with a cockamamie time-travel theory. I’m denouncing him as a fraud, Detective Monteith. Good day.” He grabbed his photos and stormed out.

Connon’s departure left us all in a state of unease. Will sighed. “He’s right. If we announce that Madoc is a time-traveller, they’ll call us crackpots.”

Rebecca, Will and I went for muffins and coffee at Tim Hortons after the meeting. The line took forever. The girls at the counter made one thing at a time, but by George they made it right. People didn’t hurry here.

“Linguistics is the best evidence we have, Kate. Without you, Madoc will look like a fraud,” Rebecca said.

I picked at my partridgeberry muffin. “I know. His future’s in my hands. Where does he stand, legally?”

“If he’s a fraud, he could be charged with public mischief,” Rebecca answered. “Maybe breaking immigration laws, if we can establish that he isn’t Canadian. If he’s a real time-traveller, well, I don’t think there are laws that are applicable. But as a Newfoundlander, my instinct’s to welcome him to the Island, not lock him up.”

“The press will eat us alive,” Will said.

“I know a way to appease the press. A screech-in,” Rebecca suggested.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“You don’t know what a screech-in is?” Will asked. He laughed. “We’ll have to initiate you too, Kate!”

“
It’s a grand old Newfoundland tradition,” Rebecca explained. “It’s a ceremony to initiate a CFA to honorary citizenship. CFA stands for ‘Come-From-Aways,’ or people who aren’t from Newfoundland. Like mainlanders and time-travellers.”

“What do you do at a screech-in?”

“We drink screech—that’s Newfoundland rum. Kiss a cod, dip your toe into the Atlantic. Good fun for all,” said Rebecca. “Then you become a proud member of the Royal Order of Screechers, and get a certificate to prove it.”

“Kiss a fish?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” said Rebecca, with a wink.

“What you said, about Madoc’s multiple trips in time?” Will said. “Maybe this isn’t the first time he’s been to Newfoundland. Maybe he stopped in Avalon.”

“Avalon?”

“You might know it as Ferryland, a historical site about an hour-and-a-half away, half way to Trepassey,” explained Rebecca. “It’s a tourist stop, but I go out there to collect rocks, sometimes. The beach is amazing. Lord Baltimore set up the Colony of Avalon there in 1620, before he moved to the States because of the cold.”

“Maybe he’ll recognize the area? Will, can we bring him to Ferryland?”

“If my superiors say it’s fine, we can go tomorrow. But I think Professor Connon should come along,” Will said.

I didn’t like the idea, but we did need a historian. I nodded. “Tomorrow.”

On our way to Ferryland, Harry Connon went on and on about Sir George Calvert, Lord Baltimore. I sat with Madoc in the back of the car. Will had taken him to a barber and dressed him with modern clothes, so he wouldn’t look out of place. Madoc watched in wonder as we passed cars and trucks on the highway. I had half-expected him to react with fear and horror at the strange technology, but he seemed fascinated instead. He truly had the soul of an explorer!

Madoc was skimming through time like a skipping stone, and I wanted to know how he was doing it, and why. I had cobbled together some simple questions in Middle Welsh.

Did he know where he was?
Yes
.

Did he know what year it was?
No
.

Did things change when he sailed?
Yes
.

How many times did things change?
Eleven
.

Eleven! Assuming he first set sail around 1179, and that each trip shunted him forward the same number of years, that would average seventy-five years per journey. His sixth stop would have been 1629, around the time of the Colony of Avalon.

What was he looking for?
The end of the whale-road. To learn. To see if it takes me back home to my people, my brother
, he said.

I recalled that in the legend, his brother Rhiryd went with Madoc to settle the new land.

How did he travel through time?
Storm comes every eighty-three days. Help me, Kate.

I checked my datebook. Madoc arrived on Boxing Day. Eighty-three days from that would place the next storm on March eighteenth.

Poor Madoc! I thought my first winter in Newfoundland was long, and I’d only lived a couple months of it. He arrived from each journey in winter, only to leave at winter’s end for a future winter. That was at least two years of fog and snow.

“Will, is there any significance to March eighteenth in Newfoundland?” I asked.

“The day after Paddy’s Day? Yeah. Sheila’s Brush. That’s a big snowstorm that always happens on or around St. Patrick’s Day. Not quite the same as Paddy’s Broom, another storm that also comes around then. Sheila is Patrick’s wife, see. She’s always mad at him, chasing after him with her brush and painting everything with ice. Why?”

“Because that’s the day the time portal opens again, to seventy-five years in the future,” I said.

The dig was closed on weekends, but Connon had research privileges here, facilitating our visit. To my surprise, the anthropologist was getting along with Madoc. As we traipsed through the snow at Ferryland, he spoke to Madoc in English, taking for granted that he would understand. Madoc was animated, pointing to places, speaking to me in Middle Welsh, but I caught only a few words. Clearly he had been here before. Frustrated, Connon put a pencil in Madoc’s hand, and made him draw in his sketchbook.

Madoc led Connon through the dig, sketching out a map of Avalon as he remembered it. “His sketches seem consistent with the buildings we know to be in the Colony at the time. These buildings he drew are the bakery and brewhouse, which don’t exist today. They tore them down in 1637 to build Kirke House,” Connon explained. “You’ve done your homework, Madoc.”

Will and I left them to their explorations for a quiet stroll along the shore. Like Rebecca said, the rocky beach had some beautiful stones. I knelt and picked up a smooth green stone. I showed Will the lovely lines in the rock.

“That’s what we call a ‘salt water’ rock,” said Will. “Rounded and smoothed by the sea.”

A tall, elderly gentleman down the beach waved at us. “You two look like a charming couple,” said the man, smiling.

Will furrowed his brow.

Embarrassed, I corrected him. “Thank you, but we’re not together.”

“Take it from a man who’s seen much in his lifetime. You two belong together.” The old man tipped his hat and continued along the shore.

“Did you know him?” I asked.

Will shook his head. “He reminds me of my father, is all.”

“What will happen to Madoc?”

Will sighed. “He has no money, no citizenship. Kind folk like you’d find anywhere in Newfoundland will help him out, but he’ll be a burden unless he learns some English. Maybe he could sell his story; I don’t know. But he’ll end up in limbo, without Canadian citizenship.”

“I have an idea about that, but I need to discuss it with Rebecca first,” I hinted. As Madoc’s
pro bono
lawyer, she would know whether the legal loophole I saw would actually work. “But in the end, wouldn’t it be simpler to let him go back on his ship? Imagine finding out what the world would be like in seventy-five, a hundred-and-fifty, three-hundred years from now. See how future generations live!”

“He’ll be adrift and alone.”

“No one needs to be.” I took a risk and took Will’s hand. He didn’t pull away.

“Have dinner with me tonight, Kate?” he asked sheepishly.

“I’d like that.”

“Come in, Kate, and shut the door.” Professor Claudia Seif had recently been appointed the Chair of Linguistics at Memorial.

I knew why she wanted to see me.

“I had a call from Harry Connon,” she said. “When I recommended you to the detective, I was expecting diligent, responsible analysis. Instead, you’ve made yourself a laughingstock of the field. It reflects badly on the department.”

“I stand by my judgment, Claudia. It’s not the orthodox answer or the safe answer, but it’s what I believe. I won’t lie.”

“Watch what you say to the press, Kate. Think about your future.”

I sighed. “What future? I’ve been paying my dues for the last five years, moving from city to city, and I’ve yet to make any short lists for tenure-track positions. “

“Kate, you’re a good linguist.” Her voice was softer now. “The breaks will come. Drop this ‘Madoc’ madness.”

There would be no convincing her.
“Thanks for the talk, Claudia. You’ve given me much to think about,” I said, and left.

O’Reilly’s Irish Pub was packed for the screech-in/press conference, and the journalists were chattering excitedly among themselves. Claudia stared daggers at me from the back row.

Will introduced himself, then began, “On December twenty-sixth, a Viking longship was discovered in the Harbour of St. John’s. Five men were found aboard, but only one was alive. Autopsies by the Coroner’s Office indicate that the men died of hypothermia. The survivor was in quarantine for fourteen days as required by the Quarantine Act, but showed no signs of disease. However, when the man regained consciousness, we discovered that he didn’t speak English, French or any other modern language.

“Several experts examined the body of evidence about our mystery man. The ship and his language point to the man’s identity as Prince Madoc of Gwynedd, a twelfth century Welsh legend.” The journalists whispered and chuckled when they heard this. “Whether this is a hoax or a case of time-travel remains in dispute among our experts. At this point, I’ll yield the floor to them: but please save your questions until they all have had a chance to speak.”

We each took a turn presenting the evidence. Connon expounded on the hoax hypothesis, while the doctor and the coroner expressed ambivalence. When it was my turn, I glanced at Claudia. What if she was right? Was I throwing away my career by standing behind what I believed?