Time Patrol (68 page)

"You are free," Floris murmured. "He bought your freedom with his life. Cherish it."

"Yes," Edh said. She stared into the dark.

"Now you may cry peace over the land. You shall."

"Yes."

Floris warmed her for a while and a while.

"Tell me how," Edh said. "Tell me what to say. The world has gone empty."

"Oh, my child," Floris breathed into the graying tresses. "Be of good heart. I have promised you a new home, a new hope. Would you like to hear about it? It is an island, low and green, open to the sea."

Life stirred a little in the answer. "Thank you. You are kind. I will do my best . . . in your name."

"Now come," Floris said. "I will bear you back to your tower. Sleep. When you have slept your fill, send forth that you would fain speak to the kings and chiefs. When they are gathered before you, give them the word of peace."

19

New-fallen snow covered ash heaps that had been homesteads. Where junipers had caught some of it in their deep green, it lay like whiteness's self. Low to the south, the sun cast their shadows across it, blue as heaven. Thin ice on the river had thawed with morning but still crusted dried reeds along the banks, while bits of it drifted in midstream, slowly northward. A gloom on the eastern horizon marked the edge of wilderness.

Burhmund and his men rode west. Hoofs struck muffled on hard ground beneath, baring the ruts of a road. Breath steamed from nostrils and made rime in beards. Metal gleamed frosty. The riders spoke seldom. Shaggy in wadmal and fur, they rode from the forest to the river.

Ahead of them lifted the stump of a wooden bridge. Piers jutted naked out of the water beyond. On the opposite shore stood the other fragment. Workers who demolished the middle had rejoined the legionaries ranked on that side. They were few, like the Germans. Their armor gave back the light but kilts, cloaks, legwear, all cloth hung worn and dirty. The plumes of officers' helmets were faded.

Burhmund drew rein, got down, and stepped onto the bridge. His boots thudded hollow over the planks. He saw that Cerialis already stood in place. That was a friendly gesture, when it was Burhmund who requested a parley—though it did not mean much, because the understanding had been clear that they would hold one.

At the end of his section, Burhmund stopped. The two thick-set men regarded one another across a dozen feet of winter air. The river clucked below them on its way to the sea.

The Roman unfolded his arms and lifted his right hand. "Hail, Civilis," he greeted. Accustomed to addressing troops, he easily cast his voice the needful distance.

"Hail, Cerialis," Burhmund responded in like manner.

"You would discuss terms," said Cerialis. "That is difficult to do with a traitor."

His tone was matter-of-fact, his words an opening. Burhmund took it. "But I am no traitor," he replied gravely, in Latin. He pointed out that this was no legate of Vitellius with whom he met; Cerialis was Vespasian's. Burhmund the Batavian, Claudius Civilis, went on to number the services he had rendered over the years to Rome and its new emperor.

III

Gutherius was the name of a hunter who often went hunting in the wildwood, for he was poor and his acres meager. One blustery day in autumn he set forth, armed with bow and spear. He did not really expect to take any big game, which had grown scarce and wary. He would set snares for squirrel and hare, then leave them overnight while he pushed on in hopes of knocking down a capercaillie or the like. However, should he come on anything better, he would be ready.

His path took him around a bay. Surf dashed wildly over the reefs outside and whitecaps chopped on the half-sheltered water, although the tide was in ebb. An old woman walked the sand, stooped low, searching for whatever she might find, mussels laid bare or a fish dead but not too rotten. Toothless, fingers knotty and weak, she moved as if every step hurt. Her rags fluttered in the bitter wind.

"Good day, granny," said Gutherius. "How goes it?"

"Not at all," said the crone. "If nothing turns up for me to eat, I fear I cannot creep home."

"Well, now, that would be a pity," said Gutherius. From his pouch he took the bread and cheese he bore along. "I will give you half of this."

"You have a warm heart," she quavered.

"I remember my mother," he said, "and it honors Nehalennia."

"Could you spare me the whole of that?" she asked. "You are young and strong."

"No, I must keep that strength if I am to feed my wife and children," said Gutherius. "Take what I give and be grateful."

"I am that," said the old woman. "You shall have reward. But because you withheld some of it, first you shall have woe."

"Be still!" cried Gutherius. He hurried onward to get away from the ill-omened words.

Reaching the forest, he set off on trails he knew. Suddenly from the brush bounded a stag. It was a mighty beast, well-nigh big as an elk, and snowy white. Its antlers spread like an ancient oak. "Halloo!" shouted Gutherius. He flung his spear but missed. The stag did not leap in flight. It poised there ahead of him, a dimness against the shadows. He strung bow, nocked arrow, and shot. At the thrum of the string, the animal fled. Yet it went no faster than a man could run, and Gutherius did not see his arrow anywhere. He thought maybe it had struck and he could chase the wounded quarry down. Recovering his spear, he dashed in pursuit.

On and on that hunt went, ever deeper into the wilderness. Always the white stag glimmered just in sight. Somehow Gutherius never tired, the breath never failed him, he ran without cease. He was drunk with running, beyond himself, everything forgotten save the chase.

The sun sank. Twilight welled up. As light failed, the stag put on a burst of speed and vanished. Wind piped among the trees. Gutherius came to a halt, overwhelmed by weariness, hunger, and thirst. He saw that he was lost. "Did yon hag truly curse me?" he wondered. Fear blew through him, colder than the oncoming night. He rolled in the blanket he carried and lay wakeful the whole of the dark hours.

All the next day he blundered about, finding nothing he recognized. Indeed this was an eldritch part of the forest. No beast scuttered in its undergrowth, no bird called from its depths, there was only the wind soughing in the crowns and tearing dead leaves loose. No nuts or berries grew, nor even mushrooms, only moss on fallen logs and misshapen stones. Cloud veiled the sun, by which he might have taken bearings. Wildly he ranged.

Then at dusk he found a spring. He cast himself on his belly to quench his withering thirst. This gave him back his wits, and he looked around him. He had entered a glade, whence he got a sight of the sky, which was clearing. In violet-blue shone the evening star.

"Nehalennia," he prayed, "have mercy. To you I offer what I should have given freely." Thirsty as he was, he had been unable to chew his food. He scattered it under the trees for whatever creatures it might help. By the spring he lay down to sleep.

During the night a great storm roared up. Trees groaned and tossed. Branches torn loose hurtled on the wind. Rain flew like spears. Gutherius groped blind in search of shelter. He bumped into a trunk which he felt was hollow. There he huddled through the night.

Morning broke calm and sunny. Raindrops glittered many-hued on twigs and moss. Wings passed overhead. As Gutherius stretched his stiffened body, a dog stepped out of a brake and approached him. It was no mongrel but a tall gray hunting hound. Joy wakened in the man. "Whose are you?" he asked. "Lead me to your master."

The dog turned and trotted off. Gutherius followed. Presently they came on a game trail and took it. Yet he spied never a sign of humanity. The knowledge grew in him. "You are the hound of Nehalennia," he dared say. "She has bidden you lead me home, or at least to a berry bush or a hazel where I can still my hunger. I thank the goddess."

The dog answered naught, merely padded on. Nothing such as the man hoped for came in sight. Instead, after a while the woods opened. He heard the sea and smelled the salt wind off it. The dog sprang to one side and vanished among the shadows. Gutherius must needs trudge on ahead. Worn though he was, happiness burned in him, for he knew that if he followed the shoreline south, he would reach a fisher village where he had kinfolk.

At the strand he stopped, amazed. A ship lay in the shadows, driven aground by the storm, dismasted and unseaworthy though not wholly wrecked. The crew had survived. They sat about in despair, being foreigners who kenned nothing of this coast.

Gutherius went to them and discovered their plight. By signs he told them he could be their guide. They fed him and left some men on guard while others took rations and accompanied him.

In this wise did Gutherius gain the reward he had been promised: for the ship bore a rich cargo and the procurator ruled that he who saved the crew was entitled to a fair share. Gutherius thought the old woman must have been Nehalennia herself.

Because she is goddess of ships and trade, he invested his gains in a vessel that plied the Britain run. Ever did she enjoy fair weather and a following wind, while the wares she bore commanded high prices. Gutherius became a wealthy man.

Mindful of thanks he owed, he raised an altar to Nehalennia, where after each voyage he made generous offering; and whenever he saw the evening star or the morning star shine forth, he bowed low, for they too are Nehalennia's.

Hers are the trees, the vine, and the fruits thereof. Hers are the sea and the ships that plow it. Hers are the well-being of mortals and peace among them.

20

"I just got your letter," Floris had said on the phone. "Oh, yes, Manse, do come as soon as you can." Everard hadn't wasted time aboard a jet. He stuck his passport in a pocket and hopped directly from the Patrol's New York office to the one in Amsterdam. There he drew some Dutch money and got a cab to her place.

When he entered the apartment and they embraced, her kiss was tender rather than passionate and soon ended. He was unsure whether that surprised him or not, disappointed or relieved. "Welcome, welcome," she breathed in his ear. "It has been too long." Yet the litheness pressed lightly against him and moved quickly back. His pulse began to slow.

"You're looking great as always," he said. True. A brief black gown hugged the tall figure and set off the amber braids. Her sole jewelry was a silver thunderbird pin above her left breast. In his honor?

A small smile curved her mouth. "Thank you, but look closer. I am very tired, very ready for my holiday."

In and around the turquoise eyes he did see hauntedness.
What more has she witnessed since last we said good-bye?
he thought.
What have I been spared?
"I understand. Yeah, better than I like to. You had ten people's work loaded on you. I should have stayed and helped."

She shook her head. "No. I realized it then, and I still do. Once the crisis was resolved, the outfit had much better uses for you, the Unattached agent. You had authority to assign yourself to the remainder of the mission, but a higher claim on your lifespan." Again she smiled. "Old dutiful Manse."

Whereas you, the Specialist who really knows the milieu, must see the job through. With whatever assistance you got from your fellow researchers and from auxiliaries newly trained for the purpose—not much, huh?—you must watch over events; make certain they continued on the Tacitus One course; no doubt intervene, most carefully, now and then, here and there: till at last they were out of the unstable space-time zone and could safely be left to themselves.

Oh, you have earned your holiday, all right.

"How long were you in the field?" he asked.

"From 70 to 95 A.D. Of course, I skipped about, so on my world line it totalled . . . somewhat over a year. You, Manse? What have you been busy with?"

"Frankly, nothing except recuperation," he admitted. "I knew you'd return to this week because of your parents, as well as your public persona, so I went directly to it, allowed us a few days' rest, then wrote you."

Was that fair? I've bounced back. For one thing, I'm less sensitive than you; what happens in history racks me less savagely. For another, you've endured those added months yonder.

It was as if her gaze sought behind his face. "You're sweet." Hastily laughing, she seized his hands. "But why do we stand here? Come, let us be comfortable."

They proceeded to the room of pictures and books. She had set the low table with coffee, canapés, miscellaneous accessories, the Scotch she knew he liked—yes, the very Glenlivet, which he couldn't even recall ever mentioning specifically to her. Side by side they took the sofa. She leaned back and beamed. "Comfort?" she purred. "No, luxury. Once again I am learning to appreciate my birth era."

Is she really relaxing, or is that a pretense? I sure can't.
Everard sat on the edge of his cushion. He poured coffee for them both and a neat whisky for himself. When he cast her a glance, she gestured no and took her cup. "This is early for me," she said.

"Hey, I wasn't proposing to tie one on," he assured her. "We'll take it easy, and talk, and go out to dinner, I hope. How about that delightful little Caribbean place? Or I can wreak havoc on a
rijstaffel
, if you prefer."

"And afterward?" she asked quietly.

"Well, uh—" He felt the blood in his cheeks.

"You see why I need to keep my head clear."

"Janne! Do you think I—"

"No, certainly not. You are an honorable man. More honorable than is quite good for you, I believe." She laid a hand on his knee. "We will, as you suggest, talk."

The hand lifted before he could throw an arm around her. Through an open window drifted the mildness of spring. Traffic sounded like distant surf.

"It is no use playing merry," she said after a while.

"I guess not. We may as well go straight to the serious." Oddly, that eased him a trifle. He sat back, glass in hand. You inhaled this delicate smokiness as much as you sipped it.