by Anthology
Rebecca, Will and I went for muffins and coffee at Tim Horton’s after the meeting. The line took forever. The girls at the counter made one thing at a time, but by George they made it right. People didn’t hurry here.
“Linguistics is the best evidence we have, Kate. Without you, Madoc will look like a fraud,” Rebecca said.
I picked at my partridgeberry muffin. “I know. His future’s in my hands. Where does he stand, legally?”
“If he’s a fraud, he could be charged with public mischief,” Rebecca answered. “Maybe breaking immigration laws, if we can establish that he isn’t Canadian. If he’s a real time-traveler, well, I don’t think there are laws that are applicable. But as a Newfoundlander, my instinct’s to welcome him to the Island, not lock him up.”
“The press will eat us alive,” Will said.
“I know a way to appease the press. A screech-in,” Rebecca suggested.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“You don’t know what a screech-in is?” Will asked. He laughed. “We’ll have to initiate you too, Kate!”
“It’s a grand old Newfoundland tradition,” Rebecca explained. “It’s a ceremony to initiate a CFA to honorary citizenship. CFA stands for ‘Come-From-Aways’, or people who aren’t from Newfoundland. Like mainlanders and time-travelers.”
“What do you do at a ‘screech-in’?”
“We drink ‘screech’—that’s Newfoundland rum. Kiss a cod, dip your toe into the Atlantic. Good fun for all,” said Rebecca. “Then you become a proud member of the Royal Order of Screechers, and get a certificate to prove it.”
“Kiss a fish?”
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” said Rebecca, with a wink.
“What you said, about Madoc’s multiple trips in time?” Will said. “Maybe this isn’t the first time he’s been to Newfoundland. Maybe he stopped in Avalon.”
“Avalon?”
“You might know it as Ferryland, a historical site about an hour-and-a-half away, halfway to Trepassey,” explained Rebecca. “It’s a tourist stop, but I go out there to collect rocks, sometimes. The beach is amazing. Lord Baltimore set up the Colony of Avalon there in 1620, before he moved to the States because of the cold.”
“Maybe he’ll recognize the area? Will, can we bring him to Ferryland?”
“If my superiors say it’s fine, we can go tomorrow. But I think Professor Connon should come along,” Will said.
I didn’t like the idea, but we did need a historian. I nodded. “Tomorrow.”
On our way to Ferryland, Harry Connon went on and on about Sir George Calvert, Lord Baltimore. I sat with Madoc in the back of the car. Will had taken him to a barber and dressed him with modern clothes, so he wouldn’t look out of place. Madoc watched in wonder as we passed cars and trucks on the highway. I had half-expected him to react with fear and horror at the strange technology, but he seemed fascinated instead. He truly had the soul of an explorer!
Madoc was skimming through time like a skipping stone, and I wanted to know how he was doing it, and why. I had cobbled together some simple questions in Middle Welsh.
Did he know where he was? Yes.
Did he know what year it was? No.
Did things change when he sailed? Yes.
How many times did things change? Eleven.
Eleven! Assuming he first set sail around 1179, and that each trip shunted him forward the same number of years, that would average seventy-five years per journey. His sixth stop would have been 1629, around the time of the Colony of Avalon.
What was he looking for? The end of the whale-road. To learn. To see if it takes me back home to my people, my brother, he said.
I recalled that in the legend, his brother Rhiryd went with Madoc to settle the new land.
How did he travel through time? Storm comes every eighty-three days. Help me, Kate.
I checked my datebook. Madoc arrived on Boxing Day. Eighty-three days from that would place the next storm on March eighteenth.
Poor Madoc! I thought my first winter in Newfoundland was long, and I’d only lived a couple months of it. He arrived from each journey in winter, only to leave at winter’s end for a future winter. That was at least two years of fog and snow.
“Will, is there any significance to March eighteenth in Newfoundland?” I asked.
“The day after Paddy’s Day? Yeah. Sheila’s Brush. That’s a big snowstorm that always happens on or around St. Patrick’s Day. Not quite the same as Paddy’s Broom, another storm that also comes around then. Sheila is Patrick’s wife, see. She’s always mad at him, chasing after him with her brush and painting everything with ice. Why?”
“Because that’s the day the time portal opens again, to seventy-five years in the future,” I said.
The dig was closed on weekends, but Connon had research privileges here, facilitating our visit. To my surprise, the anthropologist was getting along with Madoc. As we traipsed through the snow at Ferryland, he spoke to Madoc in English, taking for granted that he would understand. Madoc was animated, pointing to places, speaking to me in Middle Welsh, but I caught only a few words. Clearly he had been here before. Frustrated, Connon put a pencil in Madoc’s hand, and made him draw in his sketchbook.
Madoc led Connon through the dig, sketching out a map of Avalon as he remembered it. “His sketches seem consistent with the buildings we know to be in the Colony at the time. These buildings he drew are the bakery and brewhouse, which don’t exist today. They tore them down in 1637 to build Kirke House,” Connon explained. “You’ve done your homework, Madoc.”
Will and I left them to their explorations for a quiet stroll along the shore. Like Rebecca said, the rocky beach had some beautiful stones. I knelt and picked up a smooth green stone. I showed Will the lovely lines in the rock.
“That’s what we call a ‘salt water rock’,” said Will. “Rounded and smoothed by the sea.”
A tall, elderly gentleman down the beach waved at us. “You two look like a charming couple,” said the man, smiling.
Will furrowed his brow.
Embarrassed, I corrected him. “Thank you, but we’re not together.”
“Take it from a man who’s seen much in his lifetime. You two belong together.” The old man tipped his hat and continued along the shore.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
Will shook his head. “He reminds me of my father, is all.”
“What will happen to Madoc?”
Will sighed. “He has no money, no citizenship. Kind folk like you’d find anywhere in Newfoundland will help him out, but he’ll be a burden unless he learns some English. Maybe he could sell his story; I don’t know. But he’ll end up in limbo, without Canadian citizenship.”
“I have an idea about that, but I need to discuss it with Rebecca first,” I hinted. As Madoc’s pro bono lawyer, she would know whether the legal loophole I saw would actually work. “But in the end, wouldn’t it be simpler to let him go back on his ship? Imagine finding out what the world would be like in seventy-five, a hundred-and-fifty, three hundred years from now. See how future generations live!”
“He’ll be adrift and alone.”
“No one needs to be.” I took a risk and took Will’s hand. He didn’t pull away.
“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.”
&n
bsp; 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 heCanadian? 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 withcanwyll 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 onto 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.”