Ivar_A Time Travel Romance

by Joanna Bell

  "Sneeps?"

  "Yeah. They're sort of like carrots. Root vegetables. But the point is, I'm not picky about food."

  Thinking that Heather's stomach might appreciate blander fare, at least at first, I fixed us a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and invited her into the living room to sit on the sofa. But as soon as she took the first bite she made a face.

  "It's so sweet!"

  "It's peanut butter and jelly," I told her. "I know you had PB and J in the 80s. It's supposed to be –"

  "No," she replied, showing me where she had bitten only some of the bread off the sandwich. "The bread. It just tastes like sugar!"

  When I offered to fix something else, though, Heather refused out of politeness. She even tried to take a few more bites of the sandwich before giving up and using a butter knife to scrape the peanut butter and jelly – and soon just the peanut butter – off the offensively sweet bread. Bread didn't taste sweet to me, but I knew what everyone said about Americans eating too much sugar and guessed my taste-buds were just accustomed to it.

  "So what did you do today?" I asked, curious as to how someone who has been away from modern civilization for almost four decades would spend her first few days back. "Did you use the computer?"

  I'd given Heather a very quick lesson on the laptop that morning, showing her the touchpad and how to use it and trying, very badly, to explain the internet. But she shook her head and looked a little embarrassed.

  "I tried. But I gave up after about a minute. I just – I'm sorry, but I didn't really understand anything you said this morning. I'm sure I'll learn, I just need to –"

  "No," I told her. "Don't be sorry. I'll get Ashley to give you some lessons, she's much better at that kind of thing than I am anyway."

  "I did have a bath."

  "Did you?"

  "Yes. And it was – I don't think I can describe it. What a luxury! All that hot water just – just pouring out of the tap! Endlessly! And all of it clean. I couldn't use any of that bubble bath you showed me because I think my nose has changed – everything seems to stink here – but I lay in that tub for, oh, two hours? Until my fingers looked like raisins."

  "You think bubble bath stinks?" I asked, remembering the pungent smells of the 9th century.

  "Not like that," Heather laughed, catching the look on my face. "And I do remember how bad it was when I first lived there, in the Kingdom. I used to walk around with a cloth held over my mouth, and my husband used to joke that I must have been born a princess to behave so ridiculously. But now it's been so long that it's here – it's the future that smells. Not like rotting food or shit or animals but just of chemicals and sweetness. That jelly on the sandwich is so sharp, so perfumed, and the bubble bath was the same. I'm sure I'll get used to it in a little while."

  We talked about Heather's impressions of the future, and I was grateful for the distraction, for having a little more time to try to gather my thoughts about Ivar. She'd been away for so long it was almost like coming to the new world afresh, she told me, adding that her memories of the past in River Falls were as hazy as dreams.

  "I won't stay with you for long," she said at one point, clearly worried that I would think she meant to stay for good. "And I'm so grateful you're letting me stay here with you. But I intend to make my own life, now, for what's left of it. Everything here is clean and shiny and inexplicable, but I'm an old woman now, Sophie, and old women are resourceful. I'll be on my way sooner than you think."

  I didn't doubt her sincerity, but I struggled to think of anything Heather could do to support herself. Computers were as unknown and alien to her as ancient navigational charts were to me, and I wasn't even sure if she was still literate. What was she going to do? Wash dishes in a restaurant kitchen? It didn't seem right for someone of her age, and her experiences, to head into their twilight years doing backbreaking work for little pay.

  She must have seen that I was concerned, though, because she stood up and left the room with a smile that spoke to some great secret on her face. And when she came back, she held an object in her hands, long and thin and wrapped in linen.

  "What is it?" I asked, as Heather carefully unrolled the little package and then laid a dagger on the table.

  "It was my husband's," she said simply. "It's all I have left of him now. I was thinking I could sell it here – there are people who collect things like this, aren't there? I could –"

  "You can't sell it!" I protested, horrified. "If it was your husband's –"

  "What do you think my husband would want for me?" Heather retorted, pointedly but not unkindly. "He loved me, girl, as well as any man has ever loved a woman. Do you think he would want his wife to hold onto an object, one that contained no real trace of love or warmth within it? Or do you think he would want me to use it to buy myself some comforts, and some good food for my belly before I join him in the next world?"

  I sat back, rightly chastised. She was right, of course.

  "How much do you think you'll get for it?" I asked, leaning forward to get a closer look. It was in fine condition, the blade polished to a high shine and the bone handle, carved with scenes from what look like a hunt, inlaid with red and blue and amber gemstones.

  "I was about to ask you the same thing. I haven't used it as a tool, I've always been careful to keep it in good condition."

  I remembered, then, the conversations with Professor Foxwell about the broken piece of Anglo Saxon jewelry. He'd mentioned that even something like what I found in the woods on the Renner property – broken, barely recognizable as anything but a scrap of random metal – would normally only be found in a museum or at a university. And if that was true, if even fragments from the time of the Angles and the Vikings were precious enough to keep in museums, what would an entire dagger, adorned with carvings and gems, be worth?

  "I'm not sure," I said, thinking it best to speak to the professor before I got anyone's hopes up. "But I think I know someone who can help. I'll e-mail him tomorrow and see if he'll take a look at it."

  "You'll what? E-mail?"

  I smiled. "It's sort of like a letter, but instant. I type it up on the computer and then send it to another computer address and it gets there right away."

  Heather didn't know what I was talking about, I could see it on her face. And I didn't really know enough about technology to tell her. So instead, I decided to tell her something else.

  "Jarl Ivar is in the River Falls Hospital."

  "What?" The old woman asked and then, when my words had sunk in and her mouth dropped open, she repeated herself. "What did you say? Jarl Ivar is – he's here?"

  I nodded as the weight of the situation weighed down my shoulders again. "Yes. Here. In River Falls. He must have come after me. He must have come through the tree like I did – like you did, the first time – by accident. The police shot him in the arm when he tried to attack my partner, and now he's in the hospital and I have no idea what to do."

  I began to cry, then, surprising myself with my sudden emotion so much that I almost forgot to feel embarrassed. "It's my fault! He was coming after me – because I didn't tell him I was leaving! And now he's here and he's probably going to go to prison or get put into a mental institution and it's all because of –"

  "You have to get him out."

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, I realized not only that they were right, but that I already knew it. I did have to get Jarl Ivar out of that hospital – and out of custody. Yes, I was a cop. I was also a human being, and even apart from all the feelings that were already taking root in my heart, he had saved me from being raped – and probably killed. I owed him.

  "What?" I asked, as the logical part of my brain began to protest.

  You're risking your job. You're risking your income. You're risking your house, your future – your daughter's future.

  "You have to get him out," Heather repeated. He saved us didn't he? He saved us in Thetford, when the Angles meant to rape and probably kill us
? How long do you think someone from that time will last here? I don't even mean remain alive, because they're not going to kill him, but I mean remain sane? How long in a prison cell before he loses his mind? Besides," she paused, reaching down to run her fingertips gently over the hilt of her husband's dagger, "you love him."

  I glanced up, assuming she was joking about that last part and then laughing out loud when she didn't seem to be. "What? I love him? Heather, I barely know him!"

  The older woman shrugged. "Who ever told you love made sense, girl? I see that you haven't admitted it yet, even to yourself, but I also see the look in your eyes when you speak of him – I see it right now, plain as day."

  I looked at the dagger and then into the kitchen, suddenly awkward. "Yes," I said, "well, I, uh, I don't know about that. But I owe him, that much is true. And I do need to help him get out. Even if I get fired – and I am pretty sure I'm getting fired anyway."

  "I'll help you do it. He saved me, too, and you helped me get back here – it's the least I can do for you both. Now. You said he's at River Falls Hospital, right? What time is it now? Your daughter is with your mother tonight, right? We can leave in –"

  "Wait!" I said, realizing Heather intended to leave right then and knowing that blundering into the hospital without a plan would be the very worst thing to do. "Just hold on a sec. He's been shot, he's recovering from surgery – he's going to be there for a few more days, at least. And there are police guarding his room, we can't just waltz in there and take him with us."

  "What, then?"

  Two days later, I found myself in William Foxwell's office, shifting nervously in a heavy wooden chair as I waited. Heather and I had both agreed, after a brief search online revealed my suspicions – that real Viking daggers were so rare they could arguably be said to be nonexistent, at least in their intact form – were true, to get a valuation of her dagger in particular, before we made any other decisions.

  But time was tight. Ivar was still in the hospital and healing quickly, according to my partner Dan. After being discharged from the hospital he was going to be charged with assaulting a peace officer and then, if he couldn't post bail (which he could not) he was to be remanded in custody. And it was going to be much harder to get him out of jail than the hospital.

  "Ms. Foster," Professor Foxwell's voice came from behind me and I stood up to greet him and shake his hand. "How are you? Would you like something to drink – coffee? I just had my assistant put a pot on."

  "Uh – no, no thanks," I replied, placing a protective hand on the bag that contained the dagger, heavy and soft with the many layers of towels Heather and I had wrapped it in that morning. "I'm fine, Professor. How about you?"

  "Oh, not too bad," he replied, taking a seat in front of me. "Classes starting again soon, back to the grind. Have you come to see me with another question about the piece you found? You can always e-mail me if you like, there's no need to make a special trip to –"

  "It's not about that piece," I replied. "I mean, it's about a piece, but not that one."

  William Foxwell chuckled. "Another piece? Don't tell me you found it in the same place? How many Anglo Saxon artifacts can there be just lying around in the New York woods, anyway?"

  The professor was being lighthearted, professional. I liked him, but part of me was looking forward to his reaction when I showed him the new 'piece.'

  And he did not disappoint on that count.

  He leaned forward in his chair when I unwrapped the dagger carefully on his desk, and lifted his glasses up above his eyes to peer at it. He got so close his nose almost touched the blade and then he furrowed his brow and blinked, before very gently moving it so he could get a better look at the hilt.

  "Where did you get this?" He asked, not waiting for an answer before continuing. "This is – this is extraordinarily well done, Sophie. Yes, yes, this is quite amazing. I presume this is, ah, some kind of practical joke?"

  I shook my head when Professor Foxwell looked up, his eyebrows raised, clearly expecting a confession or an explanation from me.

  "No," I told him. "No, this is not a practical joke. This is –"

  "Where did you get this?" He asked again, leaning back down close to the dagger and running one fingertip very gently over one of the gems inlaid into the hilt. "These are – these are rough-cut gems, Sophie. You don't – it's very rare to see gems cut with this technique these days. I – tell me, please, where ever did you find this? I've never seen a replica so well done. To the naked eye, it could be entirely authentic."

  "I – um," I stammered. "Sir, Professor Foxwell, I don't think it's a replica. In fact I – I know it's not."

  William Foxwell chuckled, not unkindly but the way someone chuckles when you've got something wrong and they know it. "Well it can't be authentic," he replied, although he appeared reluctant to take his eyes off the dagger. "We have no surviving intact Anglo Saxon or Viking – because this looks Viking to me – daggers. Only fragments. Look at the blade – it's near-pristine. No, I'm sorry to disappoint you if you were hoping for different news, but this is not an authentic item. It is, however, a very well done replica of the real thing, and I suspect it would have some resale value."

  I smiled politely, not wishing to question my friend's expertise, but also aware that he was wrong. "How do you know?" I asked quietly.

  "How do I know what?"

  "How do you know it isn't authentic? You ran tests on the other piece, didn't you? Could you run tests on this dagger?"

  The professor smiled back. "I could, but what would be the point? No pieces of this quality, and in this condition, exist in the world. To send it for testing would simply waste time and money. There are people who collect this kind of thing, you know, if you wish to sell it. It's very well done, I suspect you could get, hmmm, perhaps around a thousand, fifteen hundred dollars? More if those gemstones are real."

  "How much could I get if it is authentic?" I asked. "Just pretending it is, I mean?"

  Professor Foxwell again ran his finger gently down the length of the blade, unable to stop himself gazing at the dagger even as he insisted it couldn't be anything but a replica. "If this was real?" He asked. "If this was an authentic Viking dagger? It would be priceless."

  Priceless. My heart fluttered in my chest. Heather and I had speculated on what it might be worth, and neither of us had guessed anything over one hundred thousand dollars – and we both thought even that amount was probably wishful thinking.

  "Priceless?" I whispered, clasping my hands together in my lap to keep them from shaking. "What, uh – what does that mean? I know what it means but I guess I'm just asking if someone was to put an authentic Viking dagger up for sale, how much do you think it would sell for? Just guessing?"

  "Tens of millions at least. If this was authentic, Sophie, it would literally be the only item of its kind on earth. There are very wealthy people out there, people to whom money is truly no object, who would pay any amount to own something like that. I do hope you're not planning on leaving your job at the River Falls PD for a new career as an artifact forger, though!"

  Tens of millions. Tens of millions?! I closed my eyes and tried to comprehend what I was hearing. Ten million dollars? More? Even if Professor Foxwell was getting over-exited, or speculating wildly because he thought the conversation was just theoretical, even a million dollars was more than enough to keep Heather Renner in very agreeable circumstances for the rest of her life.

  "Um, no." I laughed. "I'm not planning on doing anything like that – not that I could even I wanted to, because this isn't forged. I know you don't believe me but –"

  "Sophie," the professor intoned, looking up at me with patience in his eyes. "I don't want to be patronizing, and it's possible you believe this dagger to be authentic – perhaps someone you trust told you as much – but I have spent my life studying these things and when I tell you no such objects exist like this one, anywhere in the world, you can take me at my word."

  "But you
didn't believe the Anglo Saxon piece was real, either, did you?" I asked, feeling slightly desperate. If no one was going to believe the dagger was real, how was Heather supposed to sell it for what it was worth? "Remember the soil you found on it? How did that get there?"

  William Foxwell shook his head. "Now that I couldn't tell you. It must have been stored very carefully, somewhere where it was not exposed to the elements. Or you have access to a time machine you're simply not telling me about. Which, if you do, might explain the fineness of this dagger."

  If only I could have told him the truth. I couldn't – not without looking mad, anyway – but I wished to. I looked the professor evenly in the eyes and spoke seriously.

  "I can't explain it, Professor Foxwell, I admit that. But I promise – I promise you – that if you have this dagger tested you will find that it is actually authentic."

  Twenty-One

  Ivar

  They gave me something, in the bright place. I don't remember taking any teas, like I had done with the gothis before, or ingesting any strange fruits or mushrooms, but I was nonetheless under a spell of some kind.

  Twice I tried to escape, succeeding both times in tipping over the bed to which I was tethered and, once, to freeing my right arm and right foot from their bindings. Both times, the women in white dressings came running into the room and, within seconds of their arrival I felt a tiny prick in the flesh of my neck before sinking into an instant, unnatural sleep. After the second escape attempt they kept me sleepy and dull almost all the time. My limbs had no strength, and even when I awoke I felt ready, within moments, to slumber again.

  Soon I lost track of time, unable to distinguish between one night and another, and never sure if I was awake or dreaming. I asked for Sophie when I could, my words slurring into each other so I sounded like a man who has taken too much dark ale at a feast, but no one seemed to listen.