Langue[dot]doc 1305
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Tony was concerned with his plants and finishing his documentation and making sure everything was right. He hadn’t been included in the final lists, apart from hefting things onto Botty when the time was right. This was because Artemisia had asked him, “What are you likely to remember?” She and Mac had both suggested that he be responsible for his own stuff, and then help at the end. Everyone else found this sensible. Tony found it vaguely insulting, but didn’t care enough to complain.
The destruction of their possessions distressed him unutterably. Sylvia, on the other hand, took savage glee in burning objects. As each item went up in smoke something within her cheered.
The town still kept an eye on the burning and Fiz wondered loudly if it were hellfire.
“Don’t be stupid,” Fr Peire said. “It’s a bonfire. A midwinter bonfire. They are pagans. Just like the ones in the stories of Charlemagne and of Guillaume.”
“We don’t want pagans,” said Berta. “Or demons. Or fairies. They have no rights here. They do not belong.”
“We should go up there and look,” said Fiz.
* * *
Ben shoved the last camera (which had unaccountably been left just outside the cave) and some wire he had picked up from Tony’s patch into a sliver of space on the already-laden platform then checked the time. He had left his outfit at Mac’s secret exit, for he wasn’t certain of his next step. He joined the others, looking innocent. Living the lie.
Luke did a head count and came up one short. He looked around, puzzled. It took him a moment before he put a name to the missing team member, “Tony.”
“He’s not in his garden, for I’ve just been there. We need search parties. We need to get him back here, pronto.”
“Find him and come back quickly - we don’t have much time,” Luke said.
Ben paired Sylvia with Pauline, then Geoff with Artemisia. Mac and Luke stayed back to continue the work.
Ben dressed in the clothing he had left by Mac’s hideaway. It included every layer of reproduction clothing he could find, because it was cold, because it meant they didn’t have to be burned, and because… he didn’t know. He was happier going out with extra layers, perhaps. It was like having Mac set the caves up with explosives: he liked being prepared for the worst. He even had his Batman belt set up with full Medieval everything - knife, purse, the lot. He wore duplicates. Some of it was his, some Mac’s, some Geoff’s. It should have felt stupid, but it gave him a sense of security. Of a future that didn’t consist of his career in tatters because of Theodore Lucas Mann announcing “Mischling” to the assembled throngs. He went out alone.
Ben found a patch of hillside and sat there quietly, looking across at the hill under which he had lived. He needed a space away from Sylvia and her torments. He had to make a decision. There was time.
His watch was with his goods, ready to be shipped back, but he knew time the way he knew the breath of air in these hills. It would be a full hour before anything happened. At the end of that hour he was there, still, on the hillside with his purloined artefacts.
The next morning, he asked Guilhem-the-Silent if he needed a farm worker. The farmer angled his head and looked at the tall foreigner and nodded.
* * *
Luke went back first. Botty was opening twice for the occasion and Luke was the only person scheduled. He had demanded the first spot and asked that he be alone in it. He and the computer with his last calculations had been saved a spot on one of the fridges. He said that he wanted to welcome his team from the far end. Artemisia suspected that he wanted to make an entrance.
He stepped lightly onto Botty’s platform, sitting cross-legged on two freezer-chests one above the other. Luke was like a guru about to prognosticate, with his shaggy beard and his hooded fervent eyes. Botty flickered and changed colour and chests and guru were gone to the future.
* * *
It was the burning that caused most of the people of Saint-Guilhem to come out on a cold winter’s night. That unceasing red and black had caused the end of the year to feel like the end of the world ever since it began. Why after dark in mid-winter on a cold night was the moment everyone became angry was beyond reason. This is because the townsfolk were beyond reason. The infernal flames had to stop.
The group from Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert walked up the slender path carefully. Berta had been the one to persuade them. Louis led them, however. It was a large group. Most of the people of two parishes. Their flickering torches made the ground look irregular, so progress was slow. They made as much noise as they could.
“We need to sound like the big devils of hell. The folks in the hill won’t be surprised by us if we are loud.”
The aim was to scare the hillfolk away, not to surprise them. That was what Louis thought. Peire and Guilhem-the-smith simply wanted to talk and persuade them to bring a halt to their foul fire and maybe to leave. Fiz bubbled with mischief.
Pauline was hauling her last armful of stuff upstairs, for the bonfire. She emerged from the hole and noticed that the light had changed. She looked around and a multitude of flickers captured her gaze. She saw the trail of people with their fire and lanterns. She thought of lynch mobs and burning witches and she panicked. “Mac - they’re coming!”
“Who’s coming?” Mac had one last armful of material to add to Pauline’s and then all the burning was complete. It had taken far longer than anyone expected.
“Marauding peasants! Look!” They looked together from the hilltop and saw the many small flames flicker slowly up the path.
Cormac told Pauline to find Sylvia and not to wait for their due time. “Go back the moment there’s space,” he said. While Pauline found her things and collected her travelling companion, Mac finished arming the explosives in the wall of wBotty’s cave. He was very relieved when it was finished. Detonator caps were sensitive and he was so hurried that he was certain he was clumsy. Mac got through the wiring and the explosives and all the checks and double checks without destroying either himself or his surroundings. He heaved a sigh and went about the next bit of business. He ignored the timetable: he had to finish everything. Just as long as he made it to Botty in time and got home.
The caves were wired up. All it would take was detonation.
* * *
Artemisia had scheduled Geoff as her travel companion. They stood near their little corner of Botty, and worried. Just before they stepped onto their little patch of light, Geoff turned his body slightly so that he was looking into Artemisia’s eyes. He asked “Marry me?”
He put something in her hand and stepped up into the light. She opened her hand. In it was a poesie ring that announced, “Amor vincit omnia.” She barely had time to wonder how he got it, to put it on and to grab her bags before his, “Now! Hurry!” reached her brain. She stepped onto the platform herself.
* * *
When he’d seen Artemisia and Geoff safely though, and had made sure that Tony was finally gone, Mac went upstairs one last time, to check that the bonfire had done its job and destroyed their daily lives. He found Bona there, with her brother, eyes taking in the dying flames of the bonfire as if it had been set just for them.
“Boo!” he said, making faces. They didn’t go. “You gotta go,” he said. “Please? Look at those people coming up the hillside. You can’t be here when they arrive.”
Bona’s eyes followed his hand. Those eyes became very big. “We have to go,” she told her brother, urgently. “Everyone’s coming! We’re supposed to be asleep.”
The children walked across the hilltop and Mac lost sight of them in the darkness. He heaved a sigh of relief. When he got back inside, he went to pull out his lucky coin. It wasn’t there. He must have lost it on that hilltop, near the bonfire. A 2009 Australian coin could not be left behind, so he wasted more precious time. Finally, he found it.
I’m the last to go, he thought. I took so long. I hope Tony went. Stupid idiot may have forgotten. He didn’t have time to check. All he had time for was to press his but
ton and set off the chain of explosions.
“In case of problems,” he said to himself, “Press red button.” He did just that, then he flung himself onto Botty’s lighted platform as quickly as he could. He half-noted that he was joined by a female figure.
Timebot blinked out and there was no-one and then Botty himself folded himself up and disappeared to the future. The link with 1305 was severed. Guilhem no longer walked in step with Artemisia. Botty was now fully in the twenty-first century. It was finished.
* * *
The noise from the explosion spilled out from the caves. The trail of people stopped in confusion. Everyone turned to Fr Peire.
“Back,” he said. “Everyone go home. We can return tomorrow, when it’s light.” The horde of marauding peasants obediently did what it was told and went home, to bed.
One marauding peasant, however, was determined to see for himself, tonight. Fiz couldn’t wait until morning. Before he had moved ten paces, he felt a tug on his ear.
“You, boy, are going home and to bed. Now.” Guilhem-the-smith’s voice was inexorable and his right arm the strongest in the village. Fiz went.
* * *
When Botty’s other half had finished its deliveries, Botty’s light blinked out in the twenty-first century, his other half returned and folded again into himself.
“He’s back,” announced one of the technical people. “We’re all done.”
A cheer went up.
Artemisia noticed that the young scientist who had sent her to the past was there, to welcome her back. He looked worried. Geoff looked worried. She turned around at looked at the assembled team, to find out what had silenced them. She was unable to speak, herself. They had all emerged in Melbourne on the glowing platform, walked off it and went to the waiting room. The whole team.
Sylvia was missing. Ben was missing. Luke was missing.
“Where are they?” Tony asked.
“Wait,” said Harvey, in his most golden and reassuring voice, “I’ll be making an announcement in a moment.”
Artemisia took a deep breath and reached for Geoff’s hand. She knew Harvey’s voice, now. She suspected that the missing members were not being debriefed.
As they all filed into the hall, a loudspeaker played Sylvia’s bright song. “I sent it back last datastream,” Cormac said. “Just shows they looked at what we sent.”
“But where is she?” Pauline fretted.
“Dunno.”
Soon they were all assembled in chairs, looking out at the assembled scientists and journalists with a mixture of worry and defiance.
Harvey introduced himself and then each of them, explaining their role in the expedition. It all took an unconscionable time. Artemisia was there, sitting next to Geoff. Then came Mac and Tony and Pauline. That was all.
“As you can see,” he declared, “The expedition was a success. It was not, however, without losses. Professor Mann died in transit.” The team shifted uncomfortably, remembering the melted refrigerator. “Drs Smith and Konig also perished, although, not, we suspect, in transit. Dr Smith was with Dr Adamson and their timing was very tight: Dr Adamson got through and is right here with us, but the wormhole closed before Dr Smith could reach Botty. There will be an inquiry. In the meantime, please celebrate these heroes, who have accomplished the impossible.”
The Ancient Mariner spoke, his eyes as wild as ever. “And the big project?”
“We have much of it. Some was lost with Professor Mann and Dr Smith.”
“How much?”
“That is not relevant right now. We have the time team back. They have advanced humankind’s knowledge by an enormous amount.” Harvey’s voice didn’t hide the fact that he was worried. “We shall debrief and then allow the travellers to see their family. Thank you all for coming today, to greet them.”
Artemisia looked to where Harvey’s hand had pointed.
There, sitting amidst the strangers, was Lucia, alive. Lucia with short curls and a radiant smile.
Artemisia smiled back.
About The Author
Gillian Polack has three published novels, two anthologies and a historical cookbook1. One of the novels (Ms Cellophane/Life through Cellophane) was a Ditmar Finalist, as was one of the anthologies (Baggage). She was awarded the Best Achievement Ditmar in 2010.
Her PhDs are in Medieval History and in Creative Writing and she claims she needs a third to ‘round things out.’ This means that she also has academic publications. Her current research is mainly to do with how writers think of history and how they use it in their fiction, but she also has interests in genre, in Young Adult fiction and in matters historical.
Gillian is a reviewer, critic and non-fiction writer, award judge and an ex-morris dancer. She has received two writing fellowships at Varuna, arts grants, and is in demand at SF conventions because she carries chocolate most of the time. She currently lives in Canberra, Australia, which explains everything.
Some of the places she can be found:
http:///www.gillianpolack.com
http://gillpolack.livejournal.com
Twitter: @GillianPolack
Facebook: Gillian Polack
http://the-history-girls.blogspot.com.au/
1 Also quite a few short stories, but they spoil the 3, 2, 1 countdown, which is a shame, because one story won a Victorian Ministry of the Arts award and three more were listed as recommended reading in international lists of world’s best stories.
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