by Socha, Walt
“I saw horses. Many people on foot.” Samatu’s smile split his pox-marked face.
“Who’s on the tower?” said Joe.
“I sent Ganu up.” Samatu stood taller. “The tower must always be manned,” he said, repeating one of Haven’s rules. “Good.” Joe glanced to the hills on the other side of the Susquehanna. “Please take Larry’s canoe across.” He paused, looked around the village, and then pointed toward the tack hut where Nikaku worked with one of the horses. “Better yet, please ask Nikaku to help you take one of the larger canoes. Use signal flags to let us know if additional assistance is needed.”
“Yes, Chief.” Samatu ran downhill to the horse corral. Shaking his head, Joe watched the retreating young warrior. He refused to call him by anything but ‘chief.’ He could see several of the children heading toward the tower. Larry’s return would be a cause of celebration. Best to call a formal gathering. He checked the position of the sun. Already, the days were short, but there should be enough time to meet before the evening meal.
Joe strode to the kitchen shelter. He’d arrange for some food to be offered to the travelers to tide them over until dinner. And some extra clothing against the late autumn chill.
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It was mid afternoon before Larry, Sesapa, seventeen children, and an older, blond man were ferried across the Susquehanna to Haven. The entire village buzzed with rumors of the children and the stranger. Joe put off hearing details from Larry until all of Haven could be gathered. Samatu took the tower without comment, probably having heard most of the news during the transit of the river.
Larry’s posture slumped with exhaustion as he waited with his traveling companions for Haven’s inhabitants to assemble in the fort, but his face wore a wide smile. Joe walked to the large chair at the north end of the enclosure. The chief ’s chair. Brent and the Elders had insisted that he direct Haven’s affairs with ceremony. Joe didn’t particularly like the idea of symbols of power, but it did allow him to separate himself from the leadership position by simply walking away from the chair.
“Grandmothers, do I have your permission to sit?” Joe looked at Canisa and Gusama.
At their nods, he repeated the request to Tanuhu, Kristi, and Brent and, getting their acceptance, sat in the large but uncomfortable wooden chair. It wasn’t too bad, given that it was the first chair that Brent had ever made. One of the children had leaked the rumor that Larry had already decided to replace it soon. Joe mentally winced at the thought of the elaborate medieval throne that Larry would probably construct.
“Brent, will you record Larry’s report?” Joe took in a long breath; paper was another project they needed to work on. Along with language, given that all their notes were recorded in English.
At his nod, Joe turned his attention to Larry. “I wait your report.” Joe tried to make his voice sound formal without laughing at his efforts. Larry stood in the middle of the fort’s open area with Sesapa at his side. Behind them stood the stranger, a blond, middle-aged man, heavily scarred by smallpox. Further back, arrayed in a semicircle, sat the new children, similarly blemished, their wide eyes flicking around the fort but always returning to stare at Joe in his strange chair.
Larry responded to Joe’s cue with his own solemn demeanor. “We successfully journeyed to the mouth of the Susquehanna river.” He worked himself into storytelling mode.
“All the villages along the river were deserted.” Larry shook his head. “Except for the dead. It was good we were on horseback, as no one was alive to help boats traverse the rapids.
“Tork’s main village on the shore of the Salt Waters was almost deserted. Only a few were left alive. I figure the mortality rate had to be well over nine out of ten.” He held up nine fingers, and then ten. “A few surviving kids had living relatives. But the orphans we brought back.” He paused to glance at the new children.
Joe caught the expressions of the new children, their stares now fixed on Kristi. Larry would have told them of her skill in fighting the blister fever, losing only one youth in Haven. Joe saw their lips whispering ‘Sky Goddess,’ probably picked up from Samatu during the river crossing. “I believe that Tork’s ambitions had previously cut contact with surrounding tribes,” Larry went on. “That may have limited the spread of the sickness.”
“I ordered Slatuk and Trebun to remain at the mouth of the Susquehanna to assist the survivors. Each had at least one relative alive there. Unfortunately, none were in their immediate family. They will remain there as representatives of Haven for now. In the spring, they will move to the villages along the rapids.
“I found Tork.” Larry’s eyes flicked to Kristi. “His body was at the top of a burial mound. He had died while burying an elderly woman.” Larry’s shifted his gaze back to Joe. “I suspect his death was the result of both infected gunshot wounds and smallpox. Several of the survivors identified the body of the elderly woman as Tork’s mother.”
Silence met this comment. Joe grimaced. This was why he had wanted all those children.
Brent spoke up. “What did you do with the bodies?” Larry looked around the assembly, and lowered his head. “I finished burying the woman.” He raised his head and met Joe’s eyes. “Tork, I hung in a tree for the scavengers to eat.”
Joe kept his expression neutral. That was probably not a good precedent. He glanced at the remaining elders. They nodded, broad smiles cracking their faces. Popular, yes. He shrugged mentally. Nothing could be done about it now.
Larry introduced the new children, noting that only a few of them knew Haven’s language. Their ages ranged from 5 to 14 years old. All seemed somewhat bewildered but were accepting of their new home. Joe figured this had been helped by Larry’s gentle hand and their pre- dinner snack.
Finally, Larry turned to the stranger and gestured for him to step forward. “This is Torben. He’s the sole survivor from a Viking ship that wrecked near Tork’s village three or four months ago.”
Torben stepped forward, his eyes roving over the assembled villagers, meeting each gaze for a heartbeat before shifting to the next person. He stood taller than Joe and, in spite of his recent illness, probably weighed thirty pound more. All muscle and bone. With streaks of grey in his hair.
As Torben took his place in the center of the assembly, Joe realized that this man had also lost his place in the world. Another refugee of fate and, perhaps, a new member of Haven.
Larry described Torben’s attempted voyage from Denmark to Iceland, the storm that crippled the ship, the breakout of smallpox onboard, and the winds that blew them randomly until grounding them near the mouth of the Susquehanna River. Larry hesitated. “His shipmates who survived the storm died later of smallpox.”
Larry looked at Joe with raised eyebrows.
Joe regarded the first man to introduce smallpox in North America. Joe nodded for Larry to continue.
Looking relieved, Larry clasped Torben on the shoulder and looked around at the attentive crowd. “I’m teaching Torben English, which is closer to his own tongue than the local language.” A broad smile lit Larry’s face. “He’s a shipwright. Gonna help me build boats capable of ocean sailing.”
Joe stood, and then stepped forward. He held out his hand. Torben took it, his grip hesitant then firm.
“Welcome to Haven,” said Joe in English as he released his grip on the scarred and calloused hand. He would need to decide about the language issue soon.
He returned to his chair, leaving Torben to the ministrations of Larry. But instead of sitting, Joe nodded to Brent, who stood and walked toward the fort’s open gate. Brent had organized an extensive feast, including several varieties of stews along with roasts of deer. And a small pot of vegetarian stew for himself.
As Brent disappeared in the direction of the cookfire, Joe climbed onto the shaky chair and addressed the assembled Havenites. “Now let us feast. We have much to celebrate on this day of thanksgiving.”
The villagers parted between Joe and the gate but he shooed them
out. “I will eat last.” If he was stuck with this chief thing, then he would continue to make the rules.
Joe stepped down onto firm ground and waited until the fort emptied. After a few minutes, he exited to stroll around the perimeter of the fire circle where Brent served the elders first, then the children, followed by the adults. A not-quite-yet-familiar contentment flooded his being as his eyes found Alita helping the new children with the unfamiliar bowls and utensils. Kristi thought that Alita would be showing by Winter Solstice.
Joe nodded to Nikaku as the young warrior, carrying a bowl of stew, left for the tower to relieve Samatu. With him walked Bukama, carrying her own bowl. The former slave had adapted well to life in Haven after her cleansing.
As he passed Kristi, he noticed her guitar case at the side of her chair. A good sign. “Going to entertain us?” She looked up and nodded, one hand cradling her swelling belly. No one had the nerve to ask about the father although it was an open secret that it was Samatu’s father. Brent approached her carrying a steaming bowl.
Another good sign.
Larry interrupted Joe’s walk. “What do ya think?”
Joe clapped his big friend on the shoulder. “You did a great job.” Joe nodded toward the fire circle where the new and old children were mixing. “So how does it feel to be a dad to all those kids?”
“Exhausting.” Larry chuckled. “How are you on the inside?”
Larry stared at the excited children. “No nightmares for weeks now. Saving those kids...” His mouth tightened for a moment before he smiled. “Anyway, any chance you figured out how we got here while I was downriver? I keep wondering about your dead Medicine Elders.”
The image of the Sheriff appeared in Joe’s mind, whispering yet again the tales of dying Medicine Elders. The Sheriff faded, replaced by an older face, one he remembered from a fevered dream. The path has changed. You have changed it…
Joe shook his head. “I just don’t know.”
“Well, what I do know is that, in our old world, this continent was conquered by disease. And in this one we just beat the first epidemic of smallpox.”
“What would have happened if we hadn’t been here?” “Tork had his empire so isolated that the disease would have likely died out.” Larry shrugged. “But we met it outside of his territory and, except for a few cases, beat it.” Larry eyes bored into Joe’s. “We brought guns and medical knowledge. Maybe your old dead guys wanted us here?” His eyebrows narrowed. “And maybe they even had something to do with Torben landing where he did. It’s a long way up Chesapeake Bay to the mouth of the Susquehanna. It’d be a bitch just intentionally navigating that route.”
“I must admit, I was kind of wondering about that. But guns?” Joe frowned. “We’ll run out of ammunition soon.” “No way can we manufacture cartridges for our existing weapons. Not until we get a machine shop set up. But gunpowder ain’t that hard to make.” He shrugged again. “Although finding sulfur might be a pain. And iron’s easy to smelt. So if Brent can explain how his flintlock is put together, I can make ‘em.”
“Well, I’m not sure you’re correct about those Medicine Elders.” A shiver ran up Joe’s spine again, or was it a feeling of anticipation? “But I don’t know that you’re wrong either.”
“Whatever the reason, you pulled it off.” Larry opened his arms, taking in all of Haven.
“With a lot of help from my friends.” A welcome but unfamiliar emotion swept over Joe. A year ago he hadn’t even know any of these people. Now... He breathed deep, allowing a small smile. Now, these were his people.
His family.
The End
Contact. Book Two In The Crossover Series
Excerpt: Chapter One (The adventure continues. Follow Larry twenty years later.)
Chapter 1. July 7, 1075
“Weapons, armor, and overnight packs,” Larry said as Stormchaser drifted alongside the old pier.
“Armor and packs?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah. Too damned quiet.” Larry scanned the shoreline. He had anticipated some activity when they’d entered the narrow entrance to Ros’s harbor. But during the mile or so they’d sailed to reach this shit pier, the trail along the east shoreline had remained empty, the old growth beyond looming dark and empty. Watching them.
“Trade items?” Samatu looked up from where he was helping one of the shore party strap on a metal breastplate. “Just a dozen knives and axe heads for now. And maybe a couple pouches of seeds.” Larry frowned as the ship bumped into the crude catwalk of planks and upright logs. Old Ros had promised to rebuild it when they had made contact last year. Hopefully, he’d done better at collecting the sheep, wool, and bees they wanted. And cats. The breeding pair they’d taken back to Iceland had been a hit and had become quite fat from all the rodents. He blew out a long breath. It had been a bit over two decades since he and the others had journeyed back to the eleventh century and founded Haven. Now they were expanding, following Potts’ notebooks, trusting his advice that trade was necessary for Haven’s development. But it wouldn’t be sufficient to just prosper. They had to both monitor emerging nations and influence their development. And, if trade was insufficient to influence them, take them out.
At least these trips got him away from Haven and the life he’d fucked up.
While the shore party assembled their equipment, the remaining men secured Stormchaser. Larry turned to the six men who were not donning armor. “No fretting; you’ll get a chance to stretch your legs after we secure the area and set up guards.”
He looked toward the small farmstead that occupied the location that would become the town of Dingle, Ireland, in his mother’s day. Built of mud and wattle with a timber frame, the large house was surrounded by several outbuildings to the east and green fields to the west. Beyond the farmstead, ancient, twisted trees hugged the slopes that led up into the mountains, the nearest peak maybe three or four miles away and bare in spite of only being a couple thousand feet high.
Maybe four hundred strides away, two men stood on the small rise midway between the water’s edge and Ros’s sprawling home. Another man stood outside one of the many outbuildings. Larry squinted but didn’t recognize any of them.
He turned to Cassan. “Any thoughts?” Ros’s son had spent the last year in Iceland with Larry, teaching the Havenites and Icelanders the Eire language. He was the only member of the shore party not wearing armor. “I don’t recognize those men.”The Eire youth’s brow furrowed as his eyes swept his home. “It’s too quiet. I’m worried about my family.”
“Yeah.” As he adjusted his chest plate, Larry glanced at Torben. “Stay here but be ready to cast off. And keep the sail ready to hoist.”The old Viking nodded but kept silent, his eyes flicking over the terrain.
Larry joined the dozen men clambering out of the knarr; the large ocean going cargo ship barely rocked at the change in weight. The dock creaked, shuddering under the increased load. From within Stormchaser, Samatu held out two long leather sheaths.
“No, best keep the flintlocks here. Guard the ship and that damned watch.” Larry turned once again to gaze at the farmstead. “I’ll be okay with the revolver.” And the last ten remaining cartridges.
“Signals?” Samatu asked.
“The usual three, but if you hear four then get the hell outta here.” Larry patted the whistle hanging from his neck as he turned to the other men. “Form up. Cassan with me. Matuso, keep an eye on the rear.” Still staring at the farmstead, Larry walked to the front of his men. Where were the dogs? They’d been barking and growling like crazy the last time. Had to kick a couple to prevent his ankles from getting chewed.
“Bows strung?” Matuso asked.
“No. Better not look too aggressive.” Larry looked over his men. “But I still want a show of strength.” He paused, turning back toward the buildings. This was supposed to be a trading visit. They’d been welcome when they made contact last year. Ros had been cautious, but understandably so, with armed men that arriv
ed out of nowhere on boats. But he’d fed them and, when he’d been presented with the gifts of steel, been more than friendly. Yet the two men between the pier and the main building just stood there. “Just make sure your swords are loose in their scabbards. And keep your bowstrings handy.”
With his men behind him, Larry started up the rocky dirt track that weaved through open—but unoccupied— fields for a quarter mile to the haphazard collection of building that made up the farmstead. He could see what appeared to be onions, carrots, and possibly some stunted version of wheat. A more distant field hinted at the potatoes and beans he had given Ros.
The two men standing halfway up the track nodded as Larry approached, but before he got within talking distance, they turned and walked to the bare area in front of the largest of the timber and sod structures.
Larry hesitated then stopped, his men crowding up behind him. Except for the lack of people and dogs, all still appeared as normal. The track, not much more than a trail, meandered through the farmstead and up along a shallow valley beyond. Fields to the left of the central compound were also devoid of people. A shiver ran down his back.
“I’m thinking this ain’t…” he started to say as a scream ripped the unnatural quiet. A figure burst from the main house followed by a man.
“Orla,” a voice choked from Larry’s side. He turned as Cassan’s hand grasped Larry’s forearm. “My sister. Trouble.”
As Cassan let loose of Larry’s arm and took a step toward the farmstead, Larry grabbed the youth’s shoulder. “Hold.”
At the farmstead, the man tackled the woman. “Fuck this. Let’s go.” Larry said over his shoulder.
“String those bows.” He broke into a run, hand still on Cassan. “Stay behind me.” Cassan tried to pull away but Larry tightened his grip.
As they charged up the path, a dozen men appeared from around the main building. Flashing short swords, the rough-clothed warriors wore dull plate metal armor over coarse jerkins and leather helmets and carried torso- length shields of a colorless metal. Another half dozen men erupted from one of the outbuildings, these with bows.
