“No.”
“No?”
“Let me think a minute,” he said. “Just because it doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean that it’s impossible, right? And if we get one impossible thing, we can have two, or six, or sixteen. Right? Right?” His eyes were like two black holes with cold stars blazing at their bottoms. “Hell, we aren’t at the point where we need to worry about explanations. We have to find out the basic stuff first. Mike, I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here.”
“What?”
“Don’t go. Please. I still need somebody to talk to the Mongol for me. Don’t go. Please, Mike? Please?”
The times, Temujin said, were very bad. The infidels under Saladin had smashed the crusader forces in the Holy Land and Jerusalem itself had fallen to the Moslems. Christians everywhere mourn the loss, said Temujin. In Byzantium—where Temujin was captain of the guards in the private army of a prince named Theodore Lascaris—God’s grace seemed also to have been withdrawn. The great empire was in heavy weather. Insurrections had brought down two emperors in the past four years and the current man was weak and timid. The provinces of Hungary, Cyprus, Serbia and Bulgaria were all in revolt. The Normans of Sicily were chopping up Byzantine Greece, and on the other side of the empire, the Seljuk Turks had chewed their way through Asia Minor. “It is the time of the wolf,” said Temujin. “But the sword of the Lord will prevail.”
The sheer force of him was astounding. It lay not so much in what he said, though that was sharp and fierce, as in the way he said it. I could feel the strength of the man in the velocity and impact of each syllable. Temujin hurled his words as if from a catapult. They arrived carrying a crackling electrical charge. Talking with him was like holding live cables in my hands. Hedley, jigging and fidgeting around the lab, paused now and then to stare at me with what looked like awe and wonder in his eyes, as if to say, You really can make sense of this stuff? I smiled at him. I felt bizarrely cool and unflustered. Sitting there with some electronic thing on my head, letting that terrific force go hurtling through my brain. Discussing 12th Century politics with an invisible Byzantine Mongol. Making small talk with Genghis Khan. All right. I could handle it.
I beckoned for note paper. NEED PRINT-OUT OF WORLD HISTORICAL BACKGROUND LATE 12TH CENTURY, I scrawled, without interrupting my conversation with Temujin. ESP. BYZANTINE HISTORY, CRUSADES, ETC.
The kings of England and France, said Temujin, were talking about launching a new Crusade. But at the moment, they happened to be at war with each other, which made cooperation difficult. The powerful emperor Frederick Barbarossa of Germany was also supposed to be getting up a Crusade, but that, he said, might mean more trouble for Byzantium than for the Saracens, because Frederick was the friend of Byzantium’s enemies in the rebellious provinces, and he’d have to march through those provinces on the way to the Holy Land.
“It is a perilous time,” I agreed.
Then, suddenly, I was feeling the strain. Temujin’s rapid-fire delivery was exhausting to follow, he spoke Mongolian with what I took to be a Byzantine accent, and he sprinkled his statements with the names of emperors, princes and even nations that meant nothing to me. Also, there was that powerful force of him to contend with—it hit you like an avalanche—and, beyond that, his anger: the whipcrack inflection that seemed the thinnest of bulwarks against some unstated inner rage, fury, frustration. It’s hard to feel at ease with anyone who seethes that way. Suddenly, I just wanted to go somewhere and lie down.
But someone put print-out sheets in front of me, closely packed columns of stuff from the Britannica. Names swam before my eyes: Henry II, Barbarossa, Stephan Nemanja, Isaac Angelus, Guy of Lusignan, Richard the Lionhearted. Antioch, Tripoli, Thessalonica, Venice. I nodded my thanks and pushed the sheets aside.
Cautiously I asked Temujin about Mongolia. It turned out that he knew almost nothing about it. He’d had no contact at all with his native land since his abduction at the age of 11 by Byzantine traders who carried him off to Constantinople. His country, his father, his brothers, the girl to whom he had been betrothed when he was still a child—they were all just phantoms to him now, far away, forgotten. But in the privacy of his own soul, he still spoke Khalkha. That was all that was left.
By 1187, I knew, the Temujin who would become Genghis Khan had already made himself the ruler of half of Mongolia. His fame would surely have spread to cosmopolitan Byzantium. How could this Temujin be unaware of him? Well, I saw one way. But Joe had already shot it down. And it sounded pretty nutty, even to me.
“Do you want a drink?” Hedley asked. “Tranks? Aspirin?”
I shook my head. “I’m okay,” I murmured.
To Temujin, I said, “Do you have a wife? Children?”
“I have vowed not to marry until Jesus rules again in his own land.”
“So you’re going to go on the next Crusade?” I asked.
Whatever answer Temujin made was smothered by static.
Awkkk. Skrrkkk. Tsssshhhhhhh.
Then silence, lengthening into endlessness.
“Signal’s gone,” someone said.
“I could use that drink now,” I said. “Scotch.”
The lab clock said it was ten in the morning. To me, it felt like the middle of the night.
An hour had passed. The signal hadn’t returned.
Hedley said, “You really think he’s Genghis Khan?”
“I really think he could have been.”
“In some other probability world.”
Carefully, I said, “I don’t want to get you all upset again, Joe.”
“You won’t. Why the hell not believe we’re tuned into an alternative reality? It’s no more goofy than any of the rest of this. But tell me this: Is what he says consistent with being Genghis Khan?”
“His name’s the same. His age. His childhood, up to the point when he wandered into some Byzantine trading caravan and they took him away to Constantinople with them. I can imagine the sort of fight he put up, too. But his life line must have diverged completely from that point on. A whole new world line split off from ours. And in that world, instead of turning into Genghis Khan, ruler of all Mongolia, he grew up to be Petros Alexios of Prince Theodore Lascaris’ private guards.”
“And he has no idea of who he could have been?” Joe asked.
“How could he? It isn’t even a dream to him. He was born into another world that wasn’t ever destined to have a Genghis Khan. You know the poem:
‘Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar.’”
“Very pretty. Is that Yeats?” Hedley said.
“Wordsworth,” I said. “When’s the signal coming back?”
“An hour, two, three. It’s hard to say. You want to take a nap and we’ll wake you when we have acquisition?”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“You look pretty ragged,” Joe said.
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“I’m OK. I’ll sleep for a week, later on. What if you can’t raise him again?”
“There’s always that chance, I suppose. We’ve already had him on the line five times as long as all the rest put together.”
“He’s a very determined man,” I said.
“He ought to be. He’s Genghis fucking Khan.”
“Get him back,” I said. “I don’t want you to lose him. I want to talk to him some more.”
Morning ticked on into afternoon. I phoned Elaine twice while we waited, and I stood for a long time at the window watching the shadows of the oncoming winter evening fall across the hibiscus and the bougainvillea, and I hunched my shoulders up and tried to pull in the signal by sheer body English. Contemplating the possibility that they might never pick up Temujin again left me feeling weirdly forlorn. I was beginning to feel that I had a real relationship with that eerie disembodied angry voice coming out of th
e crackling night. Toward midafternoon, I thought I was starting to understand what was making Temujin so angry, and I had some things I wanted to say to him about that.
Maybe you ought to get some sleep, I told myself.
At half past four, someone came to me and said the Mongol was on the line again.
The static was very bad. But then came the full force of Temujin soaring over it. I heard him saying, “The Holy Land must be redeemed. I cannot sleep as long as the infidels possess it.”
I took a deep breath.
In wonder, I watched myself set out to do something unlike anything I had ever done before.
“Then you must redeem it yourself,” I said firmly.
“I?”
“Listen to me, Temujin. Think of another world far from yours. There is a Temujin in that world, too, son of Yesugei, husband to Bortei, who is daughter of Dai the Wise.”
“Another world? What are you saying?”
“Listen. Listen. He is a great warrior, that other Temujin. No one can withstand him. His own brothers bow before him. All Mongols everywhere bow before him. His sons are like wolves, and they ride into every land and no one can withstand them. This Temujin is master of all Mongolia. He is the Great Khan, the Genghis Khan, the ruler of the universe.”
There was silence. Then Temujin said, “What is this to me?”
“He is you, Temujin. You are the Genghis Khan.”
Silence again, longer, broken by hideous shrieks of interplanetary noise.
“I have no sons and I have not seen Mongolia in years, or even thought of it. What are you saying?”
“That you can be as great in your world as this other Temujin is in his.”
“I am Byzantine. I am Christian. Mongolia is nothing to me. Why would I want to be master in that savage place?”
“I’m not talking about Mongolia. You are Byzantine, yes. You are Christian. But you were born to lead and fight and conquer,” I said. “What are you doing as a captain of another man’s palace guards? You waste your life that way, and you know it, and it maddens you. You should have armies of your own. You should carry the Cross into Jerusalem.”
“The leaders of the new Crusade are quarrelsome fools. It will end in disaster.”
“Perhaps not. Frederick Barbarossa’s Crusade will be unstoppable.”
“Barbarossa will attack Byzantium instead of the Moslems. Everyone knows that.”
“No,” I said. That inner force of Temujin was rising and rising in intensity, like a gale climbing toward being a hurricane. I was awash in sweat now, and I was dimly aware of the others staring at me as though I had lost my senses. A strange exhilaration gripped me. I went plunging joyously ahead. “Emperor Isaac Angelus will come to terms with Barbarossa. The Germans will march through Byzantium and go on toward the Holy Land. But there, Barbarossa will die and his army will scatter—unless you are there, at his right hand, taking command in his place when he falls, leading them onward to Jerusalem. You, the invincible, the Genghis Khan.”
There was silence once more, this time so prolonged that I was afraid the contact had been broken for good.
Then Temujin returned. “Will you send soldiers to fight by my side?” he asked.
“That I cannot do.”
“You have the power to send them, I know,” said Temujin. “You speak to me out of the air. I know you are an angel, or else you are a demon. If you are a demon, I invoke the name of Christos Pantokrator upon you, and begone. But if you are an angel, you can send me help. Send it, then, and I will lead your troops to victory. I will take the Holy Land from the infidel. I will create the empire of Jesus in the world and bring all things to fulfillment. Help me. Help me.”
“I’ve done all I can,” I said. “The rest is for you to achieve.”
There was another spell of silence.
“Yes,” Temujin said finally. “I understand. Yes. Yes. The rest is for me.”
“Christ, you look peculiar,” Joe said, staring at me almost fearfully. “I’ve never seen you looking like this before. You look like a wild man.”
“Do I?” I said.
“You must be dead-tired, Mike. You must be asleep on your feet. Listen, go over to the hotel and get some rest. We’ll have a late dinner, OK? You can fill me in then on whatever you’ve just been jabbering about. But relax now. The Mongol’s gone and we may not get him back till tomorrow.”
“You won’t get him back at all,” I said.
“You think?” He peered close. “Hey, are you OK? Your eyes—your face—” Something quivered in his cheek. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were stoned.”
“I’ve been changing the world. It’s hard work.”
“Changing the world?”
“Not this world. The other one. Look,” I said hoarsely, “they never had a Genghis Khan, so they never had a Mongol Empire, and the whole history of China and Russia and the Near East and a lot of other places was very different. But I’ve got this Temujin all fired up now to be a Christian Genghis Khan. He got so Christian in Byzantium that he forgot what was really inside him, but I’ve reminded him; I’ve told him how he can still do the thing that he was designed to do, and he understands. He’s found his true self again. He’ll go out to fight in the name of Jesus and he’ll build an empire that’ll eat the Moslem powers for breakfast and then blow away Byzantium and Venice and go on from there to do God knows what. He’ll probably conquer all of Europe before he’s finished. And I did it. I set it all in motion. He was sending me all this energy, this Genghis Khan zap that he has inside him, and I figured the least I could do for him was turn some of it around and send it back to him and say, ‘Here, go, be what you were supposed to be.’”
“Mike—”
I stood close against him, looming over him. He gave me a bewildered look.
“You really didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” I said. “You son of a bitch. You’ve always thought I’m as timid as a turtle. Your good old sober stick-in-the-mud pal Mike. What do you know? What the hell do you know?” Then I laughed. He looked so stunned that I had to soften it for him a little. Gently, I touched his shoulder. “I need a shower and a drink. And then let’s think about dinner.”
Joe gawked at me. “What if it wasn’t some other world you changed, though? Suppose it was this one.”
“Suppose it was,” I said. “Let’s worry about that later. I still need that shower.”
IN ANOTHER COUNTRY
Writing “In Another Country” was one of the strangest and most challenging things I’ve ever done in a writing career that now is more than fifty years old.
The impetus to do it came from the anthologist Martin H. Greenberg, who told me one wintry day in 1988 that he was editing a series of books for which contemporary science-fiction writers would be asked to produce companions to classic s-f novellas of the past. The new story and the old one would then be published in the same volume. He invited me to participate; and after hardly a moment’s thought I chose C.L. Moore’s “Vintage Season” as the story I most wanted to work with.
Now and then I have deliberately chosen to reconstruct some classic work of literature in a science-fictional mode, as a kind of technical exercise. My novel The Man in the Maze of the 1960’s is based on the Philoctetes of Sophocles, though you’d have to look hard to find the parallel. Downward to the Earth, from the same era, was written with a nod to Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. My story “To See the Invisible Man” develops an idea that Jorge Luis Borges threw away in a single sentence. In 1989, I reworked Conrad’s famous story “The Secret Sharer,” translating it completely into a s-f context.
But in all those cases, though I was using the themes and patterns of earlier and greater writers, the stories themselves, and the worlds in which they were set, were entirely invented by me. Essentially I was running my own variations on classic themes, as Beethoven did with the themes of Mozart, or Brahms with Haydn. The task this time was to enter a world already created by a maste
r artist—the world of Moore’s classic 1946 story, “Vintage Season”—and work with her material, finding something new to say about a narrative situation that had already been triumphantly, and, one would think, completely, explored in great depth.
The solution was not to write a sequel to Vintage Season—that would have been pointless, a mere time-travelog to some era other than the one visited in the original story—but to produce a work interwoven with Moore’s the way the lining of a cape is interwoven with the cape itself. My story is set during the same few weeks as hers, and builds toward the same climax. I used many of her characters, but not as major figures; they move through the background, and the people in the foreground are mine. She told her story from the point of view of a man of the twentieth century who finds himself in the midst of perplexing strangers from the future; I went around to the far side and worked from the point of view of one of the visitors. Where I could, I filled in details of the time-traveling society that Moore had not provided, and clarified aspects of her story that she had chosen to leave undeveloped, thus providing a kind of Silverbergian commentary on her concepts. And though I made no real attempt to write in Moore’s style, I adapted my own as well as I could to match the grace and elegance of her tone.
There is perhaps an aspect of real lèse-majesté in all of this, or maybe the word I want is hubris. Readers of my autobiographical anthology, Science Fiction 101, will know that C.L. Moore is one of the writers I most revere in our field, that I have studied her work with respect verging on awe. To find myself now going back over the substance of her most accomplished story in the hope of adding something to it of my own was an odd and almost frightening experience. I suspect I would not have dared to do any such thing fifteen or twenty years ago, confident though I was then of my own technical abilities. But now, when my own science-fiction-writing career has extended through a period longer than that of Moore’s own, I found myself willing to risk the attempt, if only to see whether I could bring it off.
It was an extraordinary thing for me to enter Moore’s world and feel, for the weeks I was at work at it, that I was actually writing, if not Vintage Season itself, then something as close to it as could be imagined. I was there, in that city, at that time, and it all became far more vivid for me than even my many readings of the original story over a 40-year period had been able to achieve. I hope that the result justifies the effort and that I will be forgiven for having dared tinker with a masterpiece this way. And most profoundly do I wish that C.L. Moore could have seen my story and perhaps found a good word or two to say for it.
The Collected Stories of Robert Silverberg, Volume Seven: We Are for the Dark Page 15
