Down in The Bottomlands (and Other Places)

by Harry Turtledove

  Monkey-face stood in the doorway, eyes big. Park stopped his swearing long enough to rasp: “Damn your lousy little soul, don’t stand there! Get me a bandage!”

  The little man obeyed. He applied the bandage as though he expected Park to begin the practice of cannibalism on him at any moment.

  “What’s the matter?” said Park. “I won’t bite you!”

  Monkey-face looked up. “Begging pardon, your hallowship, but I thock you wouldn’t allow the swearing of aiths in your presence. And now such frickful aiths I never did hear.”

  “Oh,” said Park. He remembered the penetrating look the Sachem had given his mild damns and hells. Naturally a bishop would not use such language — at least not where he could be overheard.

  “You’d better finish my shave,” he said.

  Monkey-face still looked uneasy. “Begging your forgiveness again, Hallow, but what makes you talk such a queer speech?”

  “Canker sore,” growled Park.

  Shaved, he felt better. He bent a kindly look on Monkey-face. “Listen,” he said, “your bishop has been consorting with low uncouth persons for the past week. So don’t mind it if I fall into their way of speaking. Only don’t tell anybody, see? Sorry I jumped on you just now. D’you accept my apology?”

  “Yes — yes, of course, Hallow.”

  “All right, then. How about that famous breakfast?”

  After breakfast he took his newspaper and the pile of mail into the bishop’s well-equipped library. He looked up “Screling” in the “Wцrdbuk” or dictionary. A “Screling” was defined as one of the aboriginal inhabitants of Vinland.

  “Vinland” stirred a faint chord; something he’d learned in school. The atlas contained a map of North America. A large area in the north and east thereof, bounded on the west and south by an irregular line running roughly from Charleston to Winnipeg, was labeled the Bretwaldate of Vinland. The remaining two-thirds of the continent comprised half a dozen political areas, with such names as Dacoosja, Tjeroogia, Aztecia. Park, referring back to the dictionary, derived these from Dakota, Cherokee, Aztec, etcetera.

  In a couple of hours telephone calls began coming in. Monkey-face, according to his instructions, told one and all that the bishop was resting up and couldn’t be disturbed. Park meanwhile located a pack of pipes in the library, and a can of tobacco. He got out several pads of paper and sharpened a dozen pencils.

  Monkey-face announced lunch. Park told him to bring it in. He announced dinner. Park told him to bring it in. He announced bedtime. Park told him to go soak his head. He went, clucking. He had never seen a man work with such a fury of concentration for so long at a stretch, let alone his master. But then, he had never seen Allister Park reviewing the evidence for a big criminal case.

  History, according to the encyclopedia, was much the same as Park remembered it down to the Dark Ages. Tracing down the point at which the divergence took place, he located the fact that King Oswiu of Northumbria had decided in favor of the Celtic Christian Church at the Synod of Whitby, 664 A.D. Park had never heard of the Synod or of King Oswiu. But the encyclopedia ascribed to this decision the rapid spread of the Celtic form of Christianity over Great Britain and Scandinavia. Hence it seemed to Park that probably, in the history of the world he had come from, the king had decided the other way.

  The Roman Christian Church had held most of its ground in northern Europe for a century more. But the fate of its influence there had been sealed by the defeat of the Franks by the Arabs at Tours. The Arabs had occupied all southern Gaul before they were finally stopped, and according to the atlas they were still there. The Pope and the Lombard duchies of Italy had at once placed themselves under the protection of the Byzantine emperor Leo the Iconoclast. (A Greek-speaking “Roman” Empire still occupied Anatolia and the Balkans, under a Serbian dynasty.)

  A Danish king of England named Gorm had brought both the British Isles and Scandinavia under his rule, as Knut had done in Park’s world. But Gorm’s kingdom proved more durable than Knut’s; the connection between England and Scandinavia had survived, despite intervals of disunion and civil war, down to the present. North America was discovered by one Ketil Ingolfsson in 989 A.D. Enough Norse, English, and Irish colonists had migrated thither during the Eleventh Century to found a permanent colony, from which the Bretwaldate of Vinland had grown. Their language, while descended from Anglo-Saxon, naturally contained fewer words of Latin and French origin than Park’s English.

  The Indians — “Screlingz” or Skrellings — had not proved a pushover, as the colonists had neither the gunpowder nor the numbers that the whites of Park’s history had had. By the time the whites had reached the present boundaries of Vinland, expelling or enslaving the Skrellings as they went, the remaining natives had acquired enough knowledge of ferrous metallurgy and organized warfare to hold their own. Those that remained in Vinland were no longer slaves, but were still a suppressed class suffering legal and economic disabilities. He, Bishop Ib Scoglund, was a crusader for the removal of these disabilities. (“Hallow” was simply a respectful epithet, meaning about the same as “Reverend.”)

  An Italian named Caravello had invented the steam engine about 1790, and the Industrial Revolution had followed as a matter of course…

  It was the following morning, when Park, having caught the three hours of sleep that sufficed for him when necessary, was back at the books, that Monkey-face (right name: Eric Dunedin) came timidly in. He coughed deferentially. “The pigeon came with a writing from Thane Callahan.”

  Park frowned up from his mountain of printed matter. “Who? Never mind; let’s see it.” He took the note. It read (spelling conventionalized):

  Dear Hallow: Why in the name of the Blood Witnesses of Belfast did you run away from us yesterday? The papers say you have gone back home; isn’t that risky? Must have a meeting with you forthwith; shall be at Bridget’s Beach this noon, waiting. Respectfully, R. C.

  Park asked Dunedin: “Tell me, is Callahan a tall heavy guy who looks like an In — a Skrelling?”

  Dunedin looked at him oddly. By this time Park was getting pretty well used to being looked at oddly. Dunedin said: “But he is a Skrelling, Hallow; the Sachem of all the Skrellings of Vinland.”

  “Hm. So he’ll meet me at this beach — why the devil can’t he come here?”

  “Ooooh, but Hallow, bethink what happened to him the last time the New Belfast knicks caught him!”

  Whatever that was, Park reckoned he owed the Sachem something for the rescue from the clutches of the mysterious Mr. Noggle. The note didn’t sound like one from a would-be abductor to his escaped prey. But just in case, Park went out to the modest episcopal automobile (Dunedin called it a “wain”) and put a wrench in his pocket. He told Dunedin: “You’ll have to drive this thing; my thumb’s still sore.”

  It took a few minutes to get steam up. As they rolled out of the driveway, a car parked across the street started up too. Park got a glimpse of the men therein. While they were in civilian clothes, as he was, they had a grim plainclothesman look about them.

  After three blocks the other car was still behind them. Park ordered Dunedin to go around the block. The other car followed.

  Park asked: “Can you shake those guys?”

  “I–I don’t know, your hallowship. I’m not very good at fast driving.”

  “Slide over then. How in hell do you run this thing?”

  “You mean you don’t know-”

  “Never mind!” roared Park. “Where’s the accelerator or throttle or whatever you call it?”

  “Oh, the strangle. There.” Dunedin pointed a frankly terrified finger. “And the brake-”

  The wain jumped ahead with a rush. Park spun it around a couple of corners, getting the feel of the wheel. The mirror showed the other car still following. Park opened the “strangle” and whisked around the next corner. No sooner had he straightened out than he threw the car into another dizzy turn. The tires screeched and Dunedin yelped as they shot into
an alleyway. The pursuers whizzed by without seeing them.

  An egg-bald man in shirtsleeves popped out of a door in the alley. “Hi,” he said, “this ain’t no hitching place.” He looked at Park’s left front fender, clucking. “Looks like you took off some paint.”

  Park smiled. “I was just looking for a room, and I saw your sign. How much are you asking?”

  “Forty-five a month.”

  Park made a show of writing this down. He asked: “What’s the address, please?”

  “One twenty-five Isleif.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back, maybe.” Park backed out, with a scrape of fender against stone, and asked Dunedin directions. Dunedin, gray of face, gave them. Park looked at him and chuckled. “Nothing to be scared of, old boy. I knew I had a good two inches clearance on both sides.”

  The Sachem awaited Park in the shade of the bathhouse. He swept off his bonnet with a theatrical flourish. “Haw, Hallow! A fair day for our tryst.” Park reflected that on a dull day you could smell Rufus Callahan’s breath almost as far as you could see Rufus Callahan. He continued: “The west end’s best for talk. I have a local knick watching in case Greenfield sends a prowler. Did they follow you out?”

  Park told him, meanwhile wondering how to handle the interview so as to make it yield the most information. They passed the end of the bathhouse, and Allister Park checked his stride. The beach was covered with naked men and women. Not quite naked; each had a gaily colored belt of elastic webbing around his or her middle. Just that. Park resumed his walk at Callahan’s amused look.

  Callahan said: “If the head knick, Lewis, weren’t a friend of mine, I shouldn’t be here. If I ever did get pulled up-well, the judges are all MacSvensson’s men, just as Greenfield is.” Park remembered that Offa Greenfield was mayor of New Belfast. Callahan continued: “While MacSvensson’s away, the pushing eases a little.”

  “When’s he due back?” asked Park.

  “In a week maybe.” Callahan waved an arm toward distant New Belfast. “What a fair burg, and what a wretched wick to rule it! How do you like it?”

  “Why, I live there, don’t I?”

  Callahan chuckled. “Wonderful, my dear Hallow, wonderful. In another week nobody’ll know you aren’t his hallowship at all.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Oh, you needn’t look at me with that wooden face. You’re nay mair Bishop Scoglund than I am.”

  “Yeah?” said Park noncommittally. He lit one of the bishop’s pipes.

  “How about a jinn?” asked Callahan.

  Park looked at him, until the Sachem got out a cigarette.

  Park lit it for him, silently conceding one to the opposition. How was he to know that a jinn was a match? He asked: “Suppose I was hit on the head?”

  The big Skrelling grinned broadly. “That mick spoil your recall, in spots, but it wouldn’t give you that frickful word-tone you were using when we befreed you. I see you’ve gotten rid of most of it, by the way. How did you do that in thirty — some hours?”

  Park gave up. The man might be just a slightly drunken Indian with a conspiratorial manner, but he had the goods on Allister. He explained: “I found a bunch of records of some of my sermons, and played them over and over on the machine.”

  “My, my, you are a cool one! Joe Noggle mick have done worse when he picked your mind to swap with the bishop’s. Who are you, in sooth? Or perhaps I should say who were you?”

  Park puffed placidly. “I’ll exchange information, but I won’t give it away.”

  When Callahan agreed to tell Park all he wanted to know, Park told his story. Callahan looked thoughtful. He said: “I’m nay brain-wizard, but they do say there’s a theory that every time the history of the world hinges on some decision, there are two worlds, one that which would happen if the card fell one way, the other that which would follow from the other.”

  “Which is the real one?”

  “That I can’t tell you. But they do say Noggle can swap minds with his thocks, and I don’t doubt it’s swapping between one of these possible worlds and another they mean.”

  He went on to tell Park of the bishop’s efforts to emancipate the Skrellings, in the teeth of the opposition of the ruling Diamond Party. This party’s strength was mainly among the rural squirearchy of the west and south, but it also controlled New Belfast through the local boss, Ivor MacSvensson. If Scoglund’s amendment to the Bretwaldate’s constitution went through at the next session of the national Thing, as seemed likely if the Ruby Party ousted the Diamonds at the forthcoming election, the squirearchy might revolt. The independent Skrelling nations of the west and south had been threatening intervention on behalf of their abused minority. (That sounded familiar to Park, except that, if he took what he had read and heard at its face value, the minority really had something to kick about this time.) The Diamonds wouldn’t mind a war, because in that case the elections, which they expected to lose, would be called off…

  “You’re not listening, Thane Park, or should I say Hallow Scoglund?”

  “Nice little number,” said Park, nodding toward a pretty blonde girl on the beach. Callahan clucked. “Such a wording from a strict wed-less!”

  “What?”

  “You’re a pillar of the church, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, my Lord!” Park hadn’t thought of that angle. The Celtic Christian Church, despite its libertarian tradition, was strict on the one subject of sex.

  “Anyhow,” said Callahan, “what shall we do with you? For you’re bound to arouse mistrust.”

  Park felt the wrench in his pocket. “I want to get back. Got a whole career going to smash in my own world.”

  “Unless the fellow who’s running your body knows what to do with it.”

  “Not much chance.” Park could visualize Frenczko or Burt frantically calling his apartment to learn why he didn’t appear; the unintelligible answers they would get from the bewildered inhabitant of his body; the cops screaming up in the struggle-buggy to cart the said body off to Belleview; the headline: “PROSECUTOR BREAKS DOWN.” So they yanked me here as a bit of dirty politics, eh? I’ll get back, but meantime I’ll show ’em some real politics!

  Callahan continued: “The only man who could unswap you is Joseph Noggle, and he’s in his own daffybin.”

  “Huh?”

  “They found him wandering about, clean daft. It’s a good deed you didn’t put in a slur against him; they’d have stripped you in court in nay time.”

  “Maybe that’s what they wanted to do.”

  “That’s an idea! That’s why they were so anxious for you to go to the lair. I don’t doubt they’ll be watching for to pull you up on some little charge; it won’t matter whether you’re guilty or not. Once they get hold of you, you’re headed for Noggle’s inn. What a way to get rid of the awkward bishop without pipe or knife!”

  When Callahan had departed with another flourish, Park looked for the girl. She had gone too. The day was blistering, and the water inviting. Since you didn’t need a bathing suit to swim in Vinland, why not try it?

  Park returned to the bathhouse and rented a locker. He stowed his clothes, and looked at himself in the nearest mirror. The bishop didn’t take half enough exercise, he thought, looking at the waistline. He’d soon fix that. No excuse for a man’s getting out of shape that way.

  He strolled out, feeling a bit exposed with his white skin among all these bronzed people, but not showing it in his well-disciplined face. A few stared. Maybe it was his whiteness; maybe they thought they recognized the bishop. He plunged in and headed out. He swam like a porpoise, but shortness of breath soon reminded him that the bishop’s body wasn’t up to Allister Park’s standards. He cut loose with a few casual curses, since there was nobody to overhear, and swam back.

  As he dripped out onto the sand, a policeman approached, thundering: “You! You’re under stoppage!”

  “What for?”

  “Shameful outputting!”

  “But look at those!” pr
otested Park, waving at the other bathers.

  “That’s just it! Come along, now!”

  Park went, forgetting his anger in concern as to the best method of avoiding trouble. If the judges were MacSvensson men, and MacSvensson was out to expose him… He dressed under the cop’s eagle eye, thanking his stars he’d had the foresight to wear non-clerical clothes.

  The cop ordered: “Give your name and address to the bookholder.”

  “Allister Park, 125 Isleif Street, New Belfast.”

  The clerk filled out a blank; the cop added a few lines to it. Park and the cop went and sat down for a while, waiting. Park watched the legal procedure of this little court keenly.

  The clerk called: “Thane Park!” and handed the form up to the judge. The cop went over and whispered to the judge. The judge said: “All women will kindly leave the courtroom!” There were only three; they went out.

  “Allister Park,” said the judge, “you are marked with shameful outputting. How do you plead?”

  “I don’t understand this, your honor — I mean your жrness,” said Park. “I wasn’t doing anything the other people on the beach weren’t.”

  The judge frowned. “Knick Woodson says you afterthockly exposed-uh-” The judge looked embarrassed.

  “You afterthockly output your — uh-” he lowered his voice. “Your navel,” he hissed. The judge blushed.

  “Is that considered indecent?”

  “Don’t try to be funny. It’s not in good taste. I ask you again, how do you plead?” Park hesitated a second. “Do you recognize the plea of non vult?”

  “What’s that? Latin? We don’t use Latin here.”

  “Well then — a plea that I didn’t mean any harm, and am throwing myself on the mercy of the court.”

  “Oh, you mean a plea of good will. That’s not usually used in a freerighter’s court, but I don’t see why you can’t. What’s your excuse?”

  “You see, your honor, I’ve been living out in Dakotia for many years, and I’ve rather gotten out of civilized habits. But I’ll catch on quickly enough. If you want a character reference, my friend Ivor MacSvensson will give me one.”