Grantville Gazette, Volume 72

by Bjorn Hasseler

  She desperately wanted to stand in for John, to see his triumph and celebrate for him, but she couldn't wait for it, she didn't know when it was. She sighed. Someone would surely notice if it rained snakes or pterodactyls appeared in the sky. She went to help Bru with supper, and together they waited on word from Fritz.

  ****

  Van Meer felt warm. He curled in fetal position on something soft and itchy, a wool blanket. Another blanket covered him, and his coat on that. He peeked out past eyelids crusted nearly shut. Heat radiated from the fireplace. Sharp blades of light edged around an old horse blanket covering the doorway. He rolled to his knees, every movement dragging out like a bad dream. His muscles resisted, his head pounded, his throat was so dry he could not swallow. Mere exhaustion would be an improvement.

  Mint tea steeped in a pan by the fire. Two cups and a honey pot waited alongside. He filled one and added honey, wondering who belonged to the other cup. The ever-present background susurrus of noise in his head was quiescent. He was sitting with his back against the wall and a cup warming his hands when a dog pushed past the hanging blanket like he'd been invited. He lowered his head, gave Van Meer an apologetic look and shook vigorously to remove the snow on his back. Cold wet dollops splattered. Van Meer laughed. The dog cheered him immensely. When it came close he wrapped his arms around it and did not mind the damp smell. It wagged its soggy tail and did its best to return affection. Van Meer looked for the old piece of deer meat in his sock. Maybe he'd eat some himself.

  A voice called from outside, "Van Meer? It's me, Ella Roberts. Remember me?

  Slow minutes followed. "Yes," Van Meer finally managed, peeking past the blanket. Ella stood there, looking sodden and determined. "Baby Leisl is fine. A bad bruise on her head, exposure and hypothermia, but she's fine. We have you to thank. You saved her life."

  "The dog kept her warm." Heavy snow still fell through a grey dawn. Ella's bowman in coat and hat lounged in a camp chair, his hands behind his head like he was basking in the bright rays of summer. Van Meer's fingers began to itch and clutch.

  "This is Fritz. He wants to thank you for saving his life. He's the one who found you last night. No wait, it was Rex who found you. He's a good old dog. But anyway, he won't hurt you. Fritz, I mean. No one will. Do you understand? You're safe here; no one will drive you off or try to take you away. No one will bother you. This cabin is yours."

  "I saved Fritz's life?" He wasn't going to think about that. The rest of what Ella said slowly penetrated. "I didn't build this, did I?"

  "No. I had a couple of local boys do it. Clever lads. Van Meer, can you tell me how you found Leisl?"

  "I followed my feet. I walk God's path. Sometimes without pants." He looked down, just to check.

  "We brought you some things. Food and clothes and a soldier's cot. They're homecoming gifts. Welcome home." She stepped up to the entrance of the shelter. Van Meer found his Comfort, sat down in a corner and did not look up again. Ella stepped inside.

  ****

  Winter settled over the forest. In a dirt floor cabin on a snow-lost meadow Van Meer embraced isolation. Nights when the cold was a viscous thing seeping through the walls he sat by the fire in constant attendance. On milder nights he edged back and forth between the too-cold wall and the too-warm fire. Life became routine, but memories seared from his waking mind found their way back in dreams. Van Meer would wake panicked and screaming, clutching his Comfort and backed into a corner. Once he woke shouting obscenities and found himself barefoot in two feet of snow. He hobbled inside to a dying fire. Blood circulation returning to his feet was brought by thousands of fire needles.

  When he got snowed in it did not matter. His only real chore was gathering wood and melting snow for tea. He sat by the fire hidden from the world, a fox in a hole, a bear in a den, a tree in a thicket. He drew Ella's bowman often, standing over a corpse with a stick in its eye, warding off a slashing blow or viciously stabbing with a knife. He drew him baptized in blood and in every drawing the bowman's spirit was a vengeful shout. Van Meer fed each drawing to the fire, watching in fascination as ink and paper, blood and vengeance, turned to flame.

  By the road an arrow's flight away sat a large box with a lid and latch; a post with a bell hung by it. Twice a week someone would leave supplies and ring the bell and Van Meer would bundle up to force his way out to the road, trying desperately to get the number of steps to come out to exactly six hundred and eleven, the same as the first time he'd counted.

  One brittle ache-tooth morning after a deep snow he reached six hundred and eleven well before he reached the road and was forced to stop, frozen not by the marrow-sucking cold but by compulsive insistence. He stood unmoving, distraught and undecided, until the sun topped the trees and his face went numb. He returned to the cabin without reaching the road, feeling nameless unease. His cheeks and the tip of his nose turned black. Dead skin sloughed from his face and the pain stayed with him for days, but Van Meer's urgent need to count steps went away. He counted it a fair trade.

  In return for food; butter, eggs, bread, tea and tins and casserole dishes he could reheat, Van Meer left drawings given in gratitude and guilt; gratitude that they fed him, guilt that they asked nothing in return. He left geese paddling in circles to keep water free of ice. He left cranes hunting fish among cattails, startled deer in the moment before they flee, climbing vines, flowers in shadow cut by sunshine when leaves first start to fall.

  Early one morning when the day was won from the night but still catching its breath, Van Meer walked bareheaded in the meadow and felt the regard of his Maker upon him, as any pious man in a quiet moment might. He feared to look up and fell to his knees where he remained until the feeling passed. The wind picked up, and hard pellets of ice punished the trees. But a pleasing negative space between ice-covered branches caught his eye and he sought pen and paper from his Comfort. Only later did he realize his old travelling companions, the constant pressures in his head and at his back, were gone.

  He sketched, painted with watercolors and wished for oils. He grew strong. He began to fret.

  Chapter Five

  "Time is not an arrow. Space and time curve. Time stretches, compresses, bends. It'll likely come full circle and bite us in the ass."–John Roberts

  "Ella! Ella Roberts! Come in, come in! What an unexpected pleasure, haven't seen you since–well, since the funeral."

  The warmth and brightness of the room was a welcome contrast to a cold overcast day.

  "Hello, Charles. It's been three years and a bit."

  "Yes. John's passing was a great loss to us all, a great loss to science."

  "Not that science much noticed," grumped Charles' partner and colleague Alex Gillens.

  "We lost him earlier than that, when he tossed everything away and moved to the farm." Despite his words, he came over to give Ella a warm hug, nearly lifting her off her feet.

  Charles glared at Alex for his lack of tact. "We dearly miss John's insight, although I can't blame him. The University's treatment of him was appalling."

  Ella looked around the office suite, better described as a physics lab, sporting a dozen monitors and several computer stacks. A piled-up mix of books, notebooks, stapled-paper piles, mechanical gadgets, measuring devices, tools, tubes and space-age toys covered every horizontal surface. "They're not toys," she could hear John say with his distinctive inflection, "they're interactive constructs illustrating convolutions in time and space." The only window framed a pallid sky. The only chalkboard was mounted high on the wall, encased in glass. She recognized the scrawling hand, if not the meaning of the equations "Is that—?"

  "Our little memento. I wish he'd stayed in touch. John refused to put anything in the ether, he never did trust computer security. But he could have trusted us. Should have."

  "As to that . . ." Ella's throat constricted. She swallowed back tears and tried again. "As to that, I've brought you something." She placed her valise on the floor—there was not two square feet o
f clear space anywhere else–and popped it open. "I've brought all of John's work: his notebooks, his journals, and these." She held up a handful of computer disks. "This one in particular, his latest–I mean last–they're three years old now." She hadn't expected this to be difficult. "John's last mathematical proofs and his predictions. I want them on record as soon as possible, before the occurrence of a predicted event. In short, publish or perish. Put it in the ether, gentlemen, and the science journals." Charles' eyes grew large with voracious delight. Alex took the disks, handling them like holy relics.

  Ella snapped her valise shut, feeling satisfied. John Roberts would get recognition for his accomplishments. She could not doubt his theories were correct; she lived daily with the proof. But she had to wonder what he meant by "hiccup." John had a genius for understatement that made Ella uneasy. "I have a friend, Fritz, taking treatment at the University Med Center. We'll be here for a few days." She did not mention the important paper-signing legalities she and Fritz would face in a few hours.

  "Perhaps you could join us for dinner?" Charles offered, "Alex is a very fine chef. I only married him for his cooking."

  "I thought you married me for my money?" Alex grumbled.

  "Yes, and what a disappointment!" They traded smiles, and Ella smiled, too. Because of her grief, she'd limited communication with John's fellow physicists, but her heart warmed to them anew. "Thank you, but it'll have to wait. I'm staying at the Med Center, in fact I need to get right back." She let them think it was for Fritz's sake.

  Fritz was amazing. The little farming retro-community of Haven still had roots in Amish history, where passive technology was appreciated but cars and the frenzied pace of city life were frowned upon. It seemed hectic and crowded to Fritz when he first arrived. Ella thought his initial city visit would be overwhelming, alienating, and the tense environment of a teaching/research hospital especially so. Fritz, damn his hide after all her worrying, took it all in with unfazed delight. He asked endless questions, examined everything, and stared slack-jawed and helpless at nurses, interns, and coeds until Ella rapped his head with her thimble. She'd brought it for that very purpose; it was in her pocket now. She slipped it onto her thumb. "I'll drop by again before we leave."

  ****

  Ella and Fritz held on to each other down a treacherous sidewalk of refrozen slush, half-melted footprints, and slick puddles of ice. A cold wind blew, stinging exposed skin, making balance tricky and progress slow toward the science building just off the quad. They were both in a state of glassy-eyed crogglement. Never had Ella been more certain of the word.

  She'd met John here more than forty-seven years ago. She'd laughed out loud when a long-haired geek hurrying head down across campus surprised himself by walking into a tree. She had to introduce herself so she could apologize for laughing. He should have been the embarrassed one. The memory washed over her. Sweet and wonderful as it was, she did not want to be here. She belonged elsewhere now.

  The last time she'd entered the lab, it exuded a sense of cluttered purpose. Now it reeked of disarray. Ella stopped and stared. It looked like the aftermath of a science geek frat-house party.

  Reference books were scattered about. Neon post-it notes were stuck in the damnedest places. Abandoned coffee cups, fast food containers, and several empty beer bottles littered the place. Alex slept precariously in an office chair, his hands behind his head and his shoeless feet crossed on the desk. His toes twitched. A discarded pizza box poked out of a nearby trash can. All the monitors were scrolling numbers or displaying charts. One showed animation of a stretched rope of colored strands turning hypnotically like a barber's pole, a visual aid Ella had seen before. Broken strands of the rope would unravel and spin out like spokes of a wheel until they stopped unraveling and twirled back up again.

  From a speaker, a calm voice murmured a soft countdown, an audio counterweight to the visual chaos. Charles was standing with his back to Ella bending to speak quietly in the ear of a woman sitting at a keyboard and monitor. "Charles?"

  Charles turned blood-shot eyes to her. His tie was missing, his unruly hair needed taming, his shirt hung half out. "Ella. Yes, just the person," he rubbed his eyes like someone had just shaken him awake. "Em, what was the last thing John said to you?"

  Ella's lips tightened. "I'm not going to share that." She gave it more force than she'd intended. Charles had the good taste to redden until she added contritely, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm a bit out of sorts. I've had a difficult day. I'm sure you meant John's work."

  Charles nodded dumbly. The normally fastidious man looked completely frazzled. "Yes. We have a situation."

  "Oh?"

  Alex stumbled to his feet. "We're all a little concerned." He massaged his neck, grimacing. "John's got us all stirred up. Lucky it's spring break around here. Bette!" The girl in the chair punched a key and turned from her monitor. "Bette, meet Mrs. John Roberts. Ella, meet our resident temporal specialist and the Latest Big Thing in physics theory. Her public endorsement of John's work got it immediate attention." He waggled a thumb to indicate himself and Alex. "We're both physicists, but I'm a cosmologist and Alex specializes in geometry. So we called Bette back from vacation."

  "I was on a beach chasing blonde surfer boys twice my age. But this is way better." Bette looked to be about nineteen, if she stretched a bit. Her hair, which Ella first thought was black, had a deep purple shimmer. When she rose to shake hands, she was shorter than Ella. "Honored to meet you. I am your husband's biggest fan. Pun intended." She shook hands enthusiastically, until Ella pulled away.

  "He has fans?"

  Alex interrupted. "John was the bad boy of physics for years. Of course he had fans. But right now, we need to know about his hiccup. Bette's been running projections for the past—what time is it?" He turned in a slow circle, looking a bit bewildered. "Your lovely husband had the luxury of four years to consider the matter. You gave us three days." He added after a moment's reflection, "Well, no. I guess he didn't."

  Charles gave him an exasperated look. "We think the event or events are imminent. As in any minute. And we think they might be dangerous, even fatal."

  "Several projections suggest disaster on a massive scale."

  "Quantum time flux makes it uncertain by definition."

  "It's a saturated state."

  "Like superstate electrons."

  "Newtonian physics, quantum mechanics, and now this."

  "Toss ‘em in the air and–"

  "Down comes–" They both reached for pen and paper.

  "Boys!" Bette interrupted, "Do I have to knock your heads together again?" That seemed improbable in the extreme since Charles was tall and Alex was large, muscular, and well-padded. But the two physicists stopped in mid-track. Bette folded her arms. "Thank you. We have a guest! Two guests," she added, noticing Fritz for the first time. He was still standing by the door. Ella introduced him. "Fritz doesn't say much, but he's a dear boy."

  Bette held his hand a bit too long, looking up through her eyelashes at him, but she turned briskly back to business. "Prevailing accepted theory is, time is divergent. But Dr. Roberts claims time is convergent. Seems obvious now. Divergent time lines could only be similar if they had constant interaction and adjustment. That's key! Divergent lines spin off but fall back to be re-absorbed by the core timeline. That's huge! Totally radical! He'll make the cover of Physics Quarterly again. He's got me running in circles, given me so much to explore. I've already got a handle on the next–"

  "Not now Bette," Charles interrupted. "Ella, we need to know about John's time refugees. Have any turned up? Did they survive? Have you met any? Do you know where they are? We need to warn them."

  "And anyone around them."

  "They're a target."

  "A lightning rod."

  "The tip of the spear."

  "The rent in the fabric."

  "The first drop, with a deluge to follow."

  "Aaaargh!" Bette put her hands over her ears. "I've been putti
ng up with this for more than a year! The event, when it occurs, will occur in the vicinity of these time refugees. That's the point. If you're standing next to a surviving refugee you are standing on a target."

  Ella's head rocked back. "What?' She had no idea there was a danger, or she would have delivered John's work much sooner. She exchanged a glance with Fritz and started to speak.

  There was no transition. No moment between then and now. A boiling frothing maelstrom, a screeching thundering chaos, a discordant tortured storm of panicked birds packed the room. Furious wings pummeled her head. Before she could draw breath to scream Alex pulled her against his chest, wrapped his big arms about her head and leaned protectively over her. The crash of falling computers and the sound of breaking glass cut through the basso thrumming. She could hear shouting. The event was upon them.

  The bedlam of birds lessened and she dared to push away from Alex. A snowstorm of flashing gray and white dwindled to a few birds as they escaped out the broken window or into the hallway. Feathers, guano, blood, fluttering papers, torn books, damaged equipment, and broken toys littered the room. Dead birds lay inert on the floor. Injured birds flopped about. Dazed birds perched here and there, catatonically still. Pigeons! They were all big, long-necked pigeons! Bette and Fritz were standing by the broken window shooing them out and grinning at each other like adrenaline junkies. They were both battered, scratched, and bleeding.

  "Passenger pigeons!" Charles exclaimed. He stood by the shattered door which he'd apparently kicked open. His face was undamaged where he'd covered it with his hands, but his arms and the back of his neck sported dozens of minor scratches. Grey and white guano decorated the tip of his ear. "They're extinct! Or they were! I conclude that your dear boy Fritz is a time refugee." He looked about at his destroyed lab and grinned maniacally. "Now that was an event!"