by Various
“Have dinner with me tonight, Kate?” he asked sheepishly.
“I’d like that.”
“Come in, Kate, and shut the door.” Professor Claudia Seif had recently been appointed the Chair of Linguistics at Memorial.
I knew why she wanted to see me.
“I had a call from Harry Connon,” she said. “When I recommended you to the detective, I was expecting diligent, responsible analysis. Instead, you’ve made yourself a laughingstock of the field. It reflects badly on the department.”
“I stand by my judgment, Claudia. It’s not the orthodox answer or the safe answer, but it’s what I believe. I won’t lie.”
“Watch what you say to the press, Kate. Think about your future.”
I sighed. “What future? I’ve been paying my dues for the last five years, moving from city to city, and I’ve yet to make any short lists for tenure-track positions. “
“Kate, you’re a good linguist.” Her voice was softer now. “The breaks will come. Drop this ‘Madoc’ madness.”
There would be no convincing her. “Thanks for the talk, Claudia. You’ve given me much to think about,” I said, and left.
O’Reilly’s Irish Pub was packed for the screech-in/press conference, and the journalists were chattering excitedly among themselves. Claudia stared daggers at me from the back row.
Will introduced himself, then began, “On December twenty-sixth, a Viking longship was discovered in the Harbour of St. John’s. Five men were found aboard, but only one was alive. Autopsies by the Coroner’s Office indicate that the men died of hypothermia. The survivor was in quarantine for fourteen days as required by the Quarantine Act, but showed no signs of disease. However, when the man regained consciousness, we discovered that he didn’t speak English, French or any other modern language.
“Several experts examined the body of evidence about our mystery man. The ship and his language point to the man’s identity as Prince Madoc of Gwynedd, a twelfth century Welsh legend.” The journalists whispered and chuckled when they heard this. “Whether this is a hoax or a case of time-travel remains in dispute among our experts. At this point, I’ll yield the floor to them: but please save your questions until they all have had a chance to speak.”
We each took a turn presenting the evidence. Connon expounded on the hoax hypothesis, while the doctor and the coroner expressed ambivalence. When it was my turn, I glanced at Claudia. What if she was right? Was I throwing away my career by standing behind what I believed?
I looked at Madoc, wondering what would become of him. He smiled.
I was as alone as he was. My feeling of being disconnected wasn’t because of the fog and the rain. If I really looked, that sense of not belonging stretched back for years. We were two of a kind: I too wanted to see the future and start afresh. I knew then that I couldn’t hedge like the others did. I had to be Madoc’s voice in this matter, even if it meant my career. I took a deep breath, and spoke.
“Based on the linguistic evidence, I must conclude Madoc is truly a man out of time.” I went on to discuss why it was nearly impossible to fake pronunciation and grammar as consistently as a native speaker. “Given his native fluency in Middle Welsh, I must conclude that he is, indeed, from the twelfth century.”
Claudia stood, shook her head in disappointment, and left.
All eyes were on me. I felt like The Fool on a tarot card, about to step off a cliff.
Rebecca saved me from the press. “I’m representing Madoc pro bono, ensuring that his rights aren’t being violated. Currently, we’re unable to ascertain his nationality. But suppose that he really is Madoc. He would have been among the first Europeans to settle in Newfoundland. There’s no disputing that he’s Welsh; all the evidence pointed to that. But is he Canadian? Ah.
“The legend tells that Madoc set out with settlers to a newly found land across the sea. We know he was at the Colony of Avalon. Even Professor Connon admits that Madoc knew things about Avalon only an expert would know. And later this spring, archaeologists will begin excavations at a previously unknown site, to see if Madoc was right about a hitherto undiscovered building that existed in Calvert’s time. If he lived in Avalon, then by the Newfoundland Act that admitted Newfoundland to Confederation in 1948, that would also make him a citizen of Canada.”
“But he wasn’t alive at Confederation, was he?” a reporter shouted.
“Well, he certainly wasn’t dead.” Laughter. “He truly is one of the first immigrants to Newfoundland. I say we, a people known for our hospitality, take him in with open arms. To that effect, we’re throwing a ‘screech-in’ here at O’Reilly’s, and you’re all invited!”
The question period was chaotic. I thought I handled most of the questions well, but the ones that asked if this was all a joke were frustrating. Will finally announced it was time for the screech-in. As a native-born Newfoundlander had to perform the ceremony, Will would do the honours. They dragged us to the center and crowned us with yellow, plastic sou’wester hats. Then, we were given a full shot of screech rum.
“Hold your screech up high and repeat after me. Long may your big jib draw!” shouted Will.
“Long may your big jib draw!” I yelled, even though I had no idea what that meant. I only knew I needed a stiff drink. I squealed when the rum hit my taste buds and gut.
“That’s why they call it screech!” someone shouted. The crowd laughed.
They prompted Madoc to repeat the same. “Long mei ywr bug si’ib dra’?”
“Close enough! Bring out the cod!”
I woke in my bed with a hangover and an upset stomach, not remembering how I got home. Rum and fried baloney definitely didn’t belong together.
I found Will asleep on my couch. He must have driven me home.
Not wanting to wake Will, I went into the bedroom and called Rebecca. “I think we need to help Madoc back on his journey. And I’m seriously thinking about joining him.”
“You mean, going to the future?” Rebecca asked. “Kate, think it through! What would you do there? End up like him, a living museum?”
“I’ll find something,” I said. “Imagine, a chance to put theories of language change to the test!”
“What about your classes?”
“I doubt I still have a job.” I twisted the phone cord. “I’d like to leave instructions to take care of unfinished business.”
“Kate, give it more thought! People died on that last voyage.”
“I thought of that. We can stock up on supplies, prepare ourselves better.”
Rebecca sighed. “You’re serious about this? What about a crew? And a ship?”
“I’ll think of something.”
After the call, I gently woke Will. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Thanks for looking after me.”
“My pleasure,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Can I make you breakfast?”
I smiled to hide my troubled thoughts. “Know how to make peach pancakes?”
I told Will about my plan as we ate. “We need to give him back his ship, Will, by St. Patrick’s Day.”
“What? We can’t.”
“It’s his property. His destiny. His journey doesn’t end here, I know it.”
“The brass will never allow it!”
“One day, that’s all I ask. Call it a re-enactment of the Madoc voyage, a heritage moment, something. If it doesn’t work, you can repossess the boat, and us.”
“Us? What are you saying?”
“I’m going with Madoc.”
Silence hung between us.
“I’d like you to stay, Kate,” Will said at last, taking my hands.
I squeezed his hands. “Come with us.”
“‘Now’ is enough for me, Kate. Is it for you?”
“A chance like this comes once in a lifetime. I think there was a reason I met Madoc, here and now. He’s the adventure I’ve been looking for.”
“Not stability?”
“That, too,” I admitted. “Perhaps I can’t have both, not
yet. Maybe there isn’t a bright future seventy-five years from now. But to give up a chance to experience something extraordinary? I don’t think I can.”
“Isn’t that what love can be?”
I looked into his eyes. He was the sweetest man I had met in a long time. I didn’t want to break his heart. “Help us.”
Will sighed. “You’re a stubborn one, Kate Tannhauser. Very well, the future is yours. But for now, the present is ours.”
He leaned over the table and kissed me. It was a long, unhurried kiss, just as I imagined.
The media frenzy that followed in the weeks after was not unexpected. Our time-travel theory was portrayed as ridiculous by most, praised by few, and always controversial. I had a spate of invitations for television, newspaper and radio interviews, and I agreed to the reputable ones, but ignored the sensational ones. The consensus was, this could only happen in Newfoundland.
Rebecca and her husband opened their guest room to Madoc, after he was discharged from the hospital. I met with him to discuss joining him on his journey. “We will return you to your ship, to your storm,” I said in his language. “I am coming with you.”
There was a look of surprise and joy on Madoc’s face. “I am honoured, Lady Kate. But we need more men.”
“I will find them,” I said.
Madoc nodded. “Bring no iron. Mistake. Danger.”
As far as I could tell, the phenomenon that allowed him to travel through time was based on powerful magnetic fields. Passing through such a gateway with ferrous metals over a certain size either disrupted the field, or made the transition dangerous. He had discovered it on his first journey, finding that objects made of iron aboard their ship burned with canwyll yr ysbryd, “spirit candles” or what we called St. Elmo’s Fire, followed by a sudden snowstorm. Although they tossed all their iron off the ship, he still lost two men to the waves. On his last journey, someone must have accidentally brought iron aboard the Gwennan Gorn, a theory supported by that twisted iron nail found aboard the ship.
We still needed a crew.
I met with the Society of Creative Anachronism Seneschal of the Shire of An n-Eilean-ne, which was Scots Gaelic for “an island of our own,” and gave him the details of my plan. “Imagine, a chance to see the future, a one-way trip. I know it’s a lot to ask, leaving this time behind. But I need people who are willing to take a risk, and soon.”
“It’s an unusual request, but let me send out a notice. You never know, with us lot. We mostly look to the past, but some of us also look to the future. After all, what could be more appealing than becoming anachronisms ourselves?” He smiled. “But it seems to me, you could do a great deal of good for people who have lost hope.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are some diseases modern medicine can’t cure, but what about future medicine? Some people don’t have seventy-five years, but they hang on to hope.”
He was right. There might be new cures in the future. Then again, there might not be. All I could promise them was a gamble.
Slowly, the calls and emails came. People had heard about the opportunity through the SCA. I told them it might be a dangerous, one-way trip, but the journey would be the adventure of a lifetime. I never heard back from the majority again; but to my surprise, some were serious about joining the crew.
Though he disapproved of my plans, Will helped weed the jokesters and the dangerous from the list of volunteers. “It’s not cheap to fly to Newfoundland. Only the serious ones will come,” Will said. We whittled the list to twelve, ten men and two women. Four had sailing experience, and one was a Welshman who offered to expedite translations with Madoc.
The crew arrived a week before St. Patrick’s Day. They were a diverse crowd: fisherman, physicist, historian, ex-marine, writer, student, trucker, doctor, and more. They all had their own reasons to come with us.
We prepared provisions, avoiding ferromagnetic materials altogether. The SCA rallied and made period clothing appropriate to Madoc’s time. We chose the four lions of Gwynedd for our symbol, stitched onto white and green cloth.
Madoc and I continued teaching each other our languages. “It’s not too late, Lady Kate. You can stay with good Will. I promise to see them safely into the future.”
I shook my head. “It’s what I want.”
Alas, St. Patrick’s Day came all too soon. Tomorrow, we would set sail.
I spent that night with Will, cradled in his arms.
I asked him one last time. “Come with me.”
He held me tighter. “I need certainty.” He reached for his coat by the bed, and took out a small black box from his pocket. My heart pounded. A ring?
No. Inside the box was a golden necklace, its pendant adorned with the salt water rock I had so admired at Avalon. He put it around my neck and fastened it. “It’s not iron, so it’s safe. Something to remember me by. I love you, Kate.”
I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. “And I you. Remember me, Will.”
The next morning, the harbourfront was packed with students, strangers and friends who came to see us off. Most of them expected the whole thing to be a publicity stunt. I saw Rebecca, Philip, and Harry Connon, but there was no sign of Will. Was it too hard for him to see me off?
It had been Will who convinced the Coast Guard to return the Gwennan Gorn to us temporarily. High-prowed, she creaked as we set foot aboard her. The sound was strangely reassuring. This ship had survived many journeys and the test of countless years. She would serve us well.
What would the world be like, seventy-five years from now? Would Newfoundland be exactly the same as now, as though no time had passed? I didn’t know. All I knew was that the Will I loved would not be there, waiting for me.
I distracted myself from that thought, focusing on our preparations. We loaded food and other supplies onto the ship, within the roofed enclosure built into the center. We checked and double-checked the manifest, and we swept the ship and crew with a metal detector, looking for forgotten iron. The last crew might have been lost because of a nail. I didn’t want to make the same mistake.
When we were fit to launch, I stood at the head of the boat with a hand on Madoc’s shoulder. “Fellow travellers!” I shouted. “I trust you’ve said your goodbyes. We might go into the storm and go no further than today. We might meet with disaster. Worst of all, we sail into uncertainty. But throughout history, haven’t there always been men and women with adventurous souls, who have left behind loved ones to find new horizons? In the future, men will build ships to the stars. They will choose to do as we do today, to leave behind everything we love to explore the unknown.”
I paused and met the eyes of my shipmates. “It’s a frightening prospect, I know. But I know if I never took this chance, I will regret it for the rest of my life. I hope you all feel the same. Let’s make history!”
My crew cheered.
The snow began to fall, and the wind picked up. Sheila’s Brush was on its way.
Upon Madoc’s signal, the crew began to row. The Gwennan Gorn glided through the harbour waters past the ice floes. I looked for Will and spied him pushing through the cheering crowd, an old man following behind. It was the gentleman Will and I had met on the beach at Avalon.
Will waved from the docks, wearing civilian clothes. “Kate! Wait!” He leapt onto the ice floes, the pans, between the docks and the ship.
“Stop rowing!” I cried.
Will leapt from pan to pan, ignoring the danger. He clambered into the boat, took off his watch, and dropped it in the water. “My last piece of iron.”
I embraced him. “What made you change your mind?” I asked.
“Madoc convinced me,” Will said.
I looked at Madoc. Had he learned enough English from me to talk to Will? Or had he been a fraud, all this time?
Will saw my confusion. “No, not him. The man we met at Avalon? Madoc Monteith. Our son.”
It took a while for it to sink in. “How?”
He sho
wed me the golden pendant he wore beneath his clothes. The stone was identical to the one he gave me, striations and all, but old and worn. My hand flew to my neck. Mine was still there!
“They did find another way back. Remember I told you about Paddy’s Broom, the other storm that comes around the same time as Sheila’s Brush? Our son came back through that gate, and gave me this as proof. It’s the certainty I need. Let’s face the future together, come-what-may.”
I understood.
Madoc hollered. Ahead, a rainbow halo appeared in the whiteness of snow and fog. The gate!
There was no turning back. Into the storm and into the future.
“Come-what-may,” I said, and kissed Will.
Originally published in On Spec Spring 2009 Vol 21 No 1 #76
Dr. Tony Pi is a linguist with a Ph.D. from McGill University. A 2009 Finalist for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, he has met two purported amnesiacs in his career, which inspired this story. Visit www.tonypi.com for a list of his works.
Still
Greg Wilson
A lot of my stories aren’t true, but this is a true story . . .
Once upon a time, there was a young puppet named Still. She wore black and white and eight shades of green, and had a happy, smiling face. Every morning, she went to school to study reading, juggling, arithmetic, and history. At recess, she and her friends chased each other around the playground pretending to be gargoyles. If the teachers weren’t looking, they tied bits of string to each other’s arms and legs and staggered around as if someone was pulling on them until whoever was pretending to be Key the Cutter set them all free.
Still’s favourite thing wasn’t school or games, though—it was her violin. It had been carved out of the same piece of wood as she had been, and she never went anywhere without it. She loved its sweet young sound, and played everything on it, from tingly little nursery rhymes to the slow song of the canals at night. She even took it to bed with her, so that she could sleep with her arms around it.
