What was it that had led him to the science documentary that night? Somewhere, he knew, there was some insignificant incident that led him to that single split second of insight. He did not know exactly where that moment in time was, but he knew it was there, a single point in time that gave rise to some compelling and truly significant event in the time line of history—a Pushpoint as he came to call it.
Now he was here on a night that should be saturated with significance—the night before the project launch; the final briefing! He was fidgeting with a coffee press and listening to Nordhausen, and trying to keep Maeve content with a decent cup of coffee. Was there another Pushpoint hiding in the insignificance of all these trivial events?
A peal of thunder rumbled in the distance, and the rain pattering on the rooftop began to beat down more heavily. Dorland set the coffee press aside and went over to join the others at the study table. “Well,” he said, “there’s no use wasting any more time tonight.”
“Good,” said Nordhausen looking around for his overcoat.
“Don’t get any ideas about leaving yet,” Dorland cautioned him. “I meant we should get on with the briefing. We can always fill Kelly in when he gets here.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Nordhausen sighed. “I suppose it’s a bit wild out there with this storm blowing through. Let’s get on with it then. I’ll start with the history briefing, unless you have more time theory to discuss.”
“Be my guest,” Dorland proffered a slight bow in the professor’s direction.
“Shakespeare’s Tempest,” Nordhausen began. “A fine night for the subject, isn’t it? Now, unless Kelly finds something in the numbers to screw things up, our plan remains the same. The temporal locus is the early winter of 1612, at the Globe, of course. Our intention is solely observation. We’re going to watch the play. The Tempest was written in the fall and winter of 1610-11 and probably first produced at court in 1611. This particular event was a special showing at the Globe, probably part of the festivities preceding the marriage of Elizabeth to the Elector Palatine. Oh, we’re going to nose around a bit, but there won’t be any real interaction with the locals.”
“Nose around a bit?” Maeve was immediately on guard. “What exactly is that supposed to mean? You said observation only—remember?”
“Well you don’t expect us to simply take a seat, watch the play and then leave do you? What’s the point of opening the continuum if we don’t learn anything?”
“At this point I’d be satisfied to simply get there and return safely,” said Dorland “If we actually manage to take in a scene or two of the play, all the better.”
“What do you mean, nose around a bit?” Maeve fixed Nordhausen with those riveting hazel eyes and he squirmed a little as he answered.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he started to explain. “I thought we might just have a look about the theatre—at least one of us—while the others enjoy the play.”
“Where?” The tone of Maeve’s voice made it perfectly clear that Nordhausen had better come to the point, and fast.
“Well, there’s been a lot of controversy surrounding the origin of this play,” the professor ventured out onto the ice, choosing his words carefully. “I thought we might find something that would shed light on a few questions, that’s all.”
“What questions?” Maeve was still waiting and Nordhausen took a deep breath and finally let his idea tumble out.
“Source material, for one thing. There is no known source for the story, you see. As far as we know it was one of only two original plots Shakespeare came up with, the other being Love’s Labor’s Lost. There are some, however, who feel he was heavily influenced by the Bermuda Pamphlets, and—”
“This wasn’t in your task list, Professor.” Maeve’s look made it clear that she wasn’t happy.
“Yes it was,” said Nordhausen. “I put it in under observation of grounds and theatre.”
“Bermuda Pamphlets?” Dorland was confused.
“You expect a copy of the Bermuda Pamphlets to just be lying around somewhere for your perusal?” Maeve was on to something now.
“What are you two talking about?” Dorland was only too glad that it was Nordhausen who was going to be the recipient of Maeve’s attention for a while, but he tried to get his footing in the conversation anyway.
Nordhausen sighed and turned to explain. “Nine ships set sail from Plymouth for the colony of Virginia in June of 1609. The new governor of the Colony, Sir Thomas Gates, was on Sea-Venture, commanded by Sir George Somers. Well, the fleet hit bad weather on July 24, a tempest, if you will. Sea Venture was separated from the rest of the ships and was presumed lost at sea. Then, to everyone’s great surprise, the survivors of the ship’s contingent turned up in Jamestown the following May! They were adrift on two makeshift vessels they managed to build during a long sojourn on the isle of Bermuda—thought to be a devil’s island at the time. The reports and letters about the incident reached London in 1610, just before Shakespeare started work on The Tempest. It was very big news, you see, and particularly for Shakespeare.”
“Why is that?” asked Dorland.
“Because he had close relations with the folks who sponsored the expedition in the first place. Some even think he may have had a share in the profits of the planned Virginia Company. In any case, much of what we know about the incident comes from letters and reports that have been loosely called the Bermuda Pamphlets—William Strachey’s letter in particular.”
“I knew you would try to pull something like this,” Maeve was getting angry now. “I won’t allow it, Robert!”
“Oh come on,” Nordhausen tried to pacify her. “I have just as much interest in preserving the continuum as you do—even more, in fact. You know how I feel about the history.”
“Only too well,” said Maeve. “That’s what worries me. Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Just where do you think you might go strolling?”
Nordhausen had a flustered look on his face. There was no getting around her, he knew. Not on the night of the final briefing. He decided he had better come clean and see if he could get Dorland to chime in with something from his time theory to smooth the wrinkle over. “Just a quick peek in the rear offices,” he ventured. “Only one of us—while the others enjoy the play.”
“Whose offices?” Maeve narrowed her eyes, knowing the answer to the question before Nordhausen had a chance to answer. “No, I’m sorry, but I won’t allow it. This was not on your list—at least not specifically, and we can’t run formulae on potential outcomes without exact details. I’m amazed that you would try to pull something like this at the last minute. I won’t hear of it!”
“Whose offices?” Dorland was feeling a bit shipwrecked himself.
“But I won’t be more than a few minutes,” Nordhausen’s voice seemed to plead now. “I’ll just slip away for a moment and take a quick peek at the old man’s study, that’s all. He might have copies of Strachey’s letters there.”
“They weren’t even published until 1625,” Maeve put in adamantly, her arms folded with finality.
“Yes, the public version of the report circulated in 1625, but we know all the senior members of the Virginia Company must have seen Strachey’s letters much earlier; immediately, in fact. I’m certain that Shakespeare must have been privy to them—probably even had a copy; perhaps in his study at the Globe. And there may be other documents or books there that would shed light on this question. Perhaps I’d find a copy of Thomas’ History of Italy. Many of the characters names in the play are thought to be derived from that narrative.”
He looked at Dorland, reaching for some support. “Look here, Paul. This may be one of those little threads in the weave of time you’ve been talking about. What if there had been no real tempest at sea when the fleet set out?”
“That’s an Imperative,” Dorland explained. “The weather on a given day is not subject to a willful act by any person. It can’t be changed.”
&
nbsp; “Fine.” Nordhausen brushed the point aside and pressed on. “What I’m saying is, that if we can establish a clear link between Shakespeare and the Bermuda Pamphlets at the time he wrote the play, then you may have a chance to hunt down one of those little insignificant moments in time that gives rise to The Tempest, one of Shakespeare’s last, and greatest, plays. Why, some even think it was the summation of his work. First we find Strachey’s letters; then we try and hunt down your intersection somewhere on the Meridian—”
“Pushpoint,” Dorland corrected him.
“Whatever,” the professor hurried on. “We do other missions to follow that lead back in time and see what might have really seeded the incident. It had to be something that happened at Plymouth before the expedition put out to sea. Look, the fleet left on June 2nd. We have the date right in Strachey’s report. If they had set sail a few days earlier or later, then no storm at sea; no shipwreck on Bermuda; no report reaches London in 1610, and perhaps no play! What a paper that would make!”
“No!” Maeve’s eyes widened with her exclamation. “No, Robert. Absolutely, positively and authoritatively: No. Are you crazy? What if Shakespeare is there when you decide to take a peek into his office.”
“Highly unlikely,” Nordhausen argued.
“Why? You seemed so certain he would be at the site earlier tonight, right, Paul?” Maeve gave Dorland a quick glance, beginning to pull him over to her side on the matter.
“He’d be there, alright,” said Nordhausen, “but he’d be in the upper gallery watching the play. There were official guests to be coddled. He wouldn’t be futzing about in his office during the performance.”
“Say something, Paul.” Maeve gave Dorland a disparaging look. “If he bumbles into someone, he could introduce variations in the Meridian. Am I right?”
“Well…” Dorland thought carefully before he spoke, and they both waited as he tapped his finger on the table, catching up to the implications of the argument at last. “The professor may be right that the Old Bard would probably be in the gallery, but probabilities are the province of Outcomes and Consequences.”
“There,” said Maeve, seizing on the moment to assert herself again. “You should have submitted this idea in detail, Robert, along with all this business about the Bermuda Pamphlets, and Strachey’s letters and God only know what else you may be after with this. We can’t run probability numbers without specifics. You, of all people, should know that!”
“But really,” Nordhausen made one last sortie. “What would be the harm? I’m not talking about some dolt blundering into Shakespeare’s offices and rifling the place for lost documents—”
“No,” Maeve interrupted him. “You’re talking about a bemused history professor on a quest for primary source material in the office of one of the most significant ‘Prime Movers’ of the last 500 years, right? Are you telling me you’re going to be careful once you get your beady eyes on that man’s desk? You mean to say that you could resist the urge to open that desk drawer, or to slip a volume or two out of his bookcase? Lord, I wouldn’t be surprised if you actually tried to make off with something significant and bring it back!”
“Well I’m not that daft,” Nordhausen was getting angry.
“That would be a serious violation,” Dorland put in matter of factly.
“Damn right,” said Maeve. “I just won’t allow this, so get it out of your head. If you plan on going tomorrow, then I am going to be glued to your right arm. Understand?”
Nordhausen gave her a sheepish look. “Oh, what’s the use,” he said sullenly, a defeated look on his face. “I mean what good is the experiment if you don’t try to answer questions like this? Don’t get all bent out of shape now, Maeve. Nothing’s going to happen anyway. We’ll get all dressed up for the play and the Arch won’t work. Mark my words.” He fished out his pocket watch again, snapping it open to look at the time. “Nine-thirty-five,” he muttered. “Where’s Kelly and his numbers machine? Are we going to sit here all night?”
Dorland saw that, with the loss of his fishing expedition, Nordhausen was going to lapse into his famous brooding intellect again. Lightning flashed in the sky outside the study, and it seemed there was a great deal of noise out on the street. He suddenly felt that the whole evening was spinning off kilter for him. All of the restless excitement he had brought with him to the meeting was dissipating into a rising sense of anxiety. He felt odd, and strangely out of place. One moment he had the reins of the project tightly in his grasp, and now he seemed to feel things slipping away from him. Maeve was clearly angry and Nordhausen was brooding and they were out of coffee and Kelly was nowhere to be found. The noise outside, and the roiling of the storm, seemed to mirror his inner states, leaving him adrift and unsettled in his mind about the outcome of the project. For the first time in many long years he faced a yawning sense of doubt about it all. What were they about to do?
What if they really could open the continuum and visit the Globe on the night of The Tempest? What if Nordhausen did something stupid and introduced a Variation—or even worse, a Transformation? What if they got too damn curious and started tugging on one of those errant threads of time, to look for clues and answer those nagging questions that were sure to present themselves? Suppose Nordhausen was right and they managed to travel back to Plymouth before the fleet set out in 1609: what if they disturbed something, ever so slightly, and the fleet leaves on June 4 instead of June 2? The professor would be correct! The storm at sea happens on schedule, because it’s inevitable. But if they don’t run into the storm, and the Sea-Venture never gets separated from the group, then they don’t run aground on Bermuda and make that miraculous appearance a year later. Strachey has nothing to write about, and there are no Bermuda Pamphlets circulating among the higher ups of the Virginia Colony investors. Shakespeare never sees the damn thing, and then, perhaps…he never writes The Tempest! A sudden idea struck him in the face like blowing rain.
“Wait a second,” he began. “Just a minute now…”
Nordhausen was still sulking and fidgeting with his pocket watch. Maeve was flipping pages in her Norton Anthology and sending the professor unfriendly glances. She reached for her coffee mug, took one sip and then frowned again.
“Robert’s got me thinking,” Paul began. The professor perked up a bit, looking in Paul’s direction. “He may be right, you know.”
“What?” Maeve closed the Anthology abruptly, ready to do battle with this unexpected column reinforcing Nordhausen’s position.
“Hear me out. Suppose everything Nordhausen says is true. Suppose we establish a link between the Bermuda Pamphlets and the origin of The Tempest. Like you said at the beginning, Robert: Shakespeare always got his plots from somewhere, and this is one of two plays that seem unusual. No one has found a source for the plot.”
“Get to the point,” Maeve was ready to squash the objection the instant she heard it.
“Well, if we do start looking around, and we go back to Plymouth before the fleet sets sail…” He laid out his line of thought for them. “Don’t you see? A Pushpoint is the triggering event that leads to something really significant in the time line—like the writing of this play. Yet, even though it is so powerful in its influence, it can be disturbed very easily—even prevented from happening altogether. If we were to go to Plymouth we could do something to interfere with the fleet’s departure date without even knowing it, no matter how careful we are to avoid contamination.”
“That’s why we can’t allow it,” said Maeve.
“No,” Dorland corrected her. “That’s why Time won’t allow it. We’d create a Paradox!”
“Oh, here we go again,” said Nordhausen. He had hoped Paul was coming around to his side on the issue, but now he saw that he was spinning off into Time Theory again.
“Think about it,” said Dorland. “If that fleet doesn’t leave Plymouth on June 2nd, and Nordhausen is correct in his idea about the Bermuda Pamphlets, then maybe Shakespeare never writes
the damn play!”
Maeve was starting to get angry again, but her head began to filter through the possibilities and she settled into thought. After all, Outcomes and Consequences were her department. She should have seen the Paradox immediately. She was a little perturbed that Paul would happen on it first, but granted him a moment’s respect.
“Paradox.” Paul let the word hang for a moment, and a timely roll of thunder seemed to accent the moment and add just the right dramatic effect. A dog started barking in the rain outside, disturbed by the flash of lightning. “The continuum is very uncomfortable with Paradox, you see, and so I’m afraid we can’t pull on this string, Robert. If we prevent the play from being written then where the hell would we be going tomorrow? Certainly not to the Globe in 1611 to watch a play that was never written!”
“We don’t know that, Paul,” said Nordhausen. “Something else could become the source of the play.”
“Too much haze,” said Dorland. It was a term he used when events became obscured in the time line, and probability algorithms became particularly convoluted. “I was worried about that .0027% discrepancy on the preliminaries, but now I think the possibility of Paradox is very real here. We may have to work this through a bit. Sorry, Robert, but I’ll have to weigh in with Maeve on this one. We watch the play, but nothing else.” He was starting to think that the prospect of Paradox had cropped up all too easily in this scenario, where he least expected it. They had chosen the play as a way of avoiding any potential complications on this first mission. Now, the slightest variation in their planned activities presented problems. Perhaps, he thought, any time travel would eventually lead to some kind of Paradox. Perhaps Nordhausen was right again, and nothing was going to happen tomorrow—nothing at all.
Meridian - A Novel In Time (The Meridian Series) Page 3