by Anthology
Vicki stared out as well. “It’s clear enough.” She pointed. “That’s the Calshot spit. It’s probably not even a half mile away.”
Paul turned to stare at her; it was clear that despite her levity, she sorely wanted to go home. She turned and their eyes locked. “You’re an American,” she said. “You have a home to go to. But my family, everyone . . . everyone I know lives in the UK.”
The MP regarded her coldly. “Do you have information I should know?” he said, more in the tone of a command than a question.
Vicki glanced pleadingly at Paul.
“I was on the phone with the Southampton professor I work for,” said Paul, addressing the MP, “when he threw the switch on an experiment he was conducting. Conceivably, it could have caused the power to go down, communications channels to fail, and more.”
“Much more,” whispered the MP. Paul stared at him quizzically. It was obvious he knew a lot more than he was saying.
The captain looked at Paul with undisguised incredulity—not so the MP.
“And I think,” Paul went on, “that I might be able to reverse the blackout.”
“Blackout, hell!” sputtered the MP. “The whole of bloody Britain has gone dark. No lights, radio, emergency communications systems. Nothing!”
“And just how do you intend to reverse the blackout?” said the captain, his voice filled with sarcasm.
Paul swung down his pack, rummaged through it, and brought out the capsule—a book-sized device covered with dials and controls.
“What the hell is that?” said the MP.
“It’s complicated.” Paul stowed the capsule back in his pack. “But if I can activate it roughly where my professor activated his, it should fix the problem.”
“Should fix?”
“Best I can offer.” Paul shrugged. “I might be totally wrong. My professor might not have had anything to do with it.”
The MP turned to the captain. “Well?”
“I still can’t take the risk. It’s my responsibility as captain. I can’t put my ship at risk for some theory.”
The captain and the MP exchanged long, silent stares.
“Wait!” said Paul. “I think I have something of an idea.” Vicki shot him a bemused glance. “What if we—” Paul moved close to Vicki. “What if we were to borrow a lifeboat and just row the half mile to shore?”
“More like three quarters of a mile,” said the captain in a hostile voice. “And it’s dangerous.”
“What do you think?” said Paul, turning to Vicki.
“I want to go home.”
“Fine,” said Paul. “Then let’s go for it.”
The captain gave a chuckle that sounded more like a snigger. “I don’t think so.” He gave a mirthless smile. “I’m not in the habit of letting kids make off with lifeboats for joyriding.”
“In that case,” said Paul, more for effect, “I’ll jump in and swim for shore.”
“Let the kids have a boat,” said the MP. “My responsibility.” He turned to Paul, thereby effectively cutting the captain off from issuing more objections. “But it must be twenty miles from Calshot to Southampton.”
“We can hitchhike,” said Paul. “And in any case, we have bikes.”
“Fine,” said the MP. “That’s settled.” He smiled gently. “I’d rather like to come with you, but . . . but sadly, at my time in life I only experience adventure vicariously.”
A half hour later, Paul and Vicki had loaded their bicycles and packs into a lifeboat and had climbed in after them. The lifeboat had a sealed emergency provisions locker that also contained, according to the crew, detailed maps of the coastline bordering the Solent—including the Isle of Wight and, most importantly, southern England. Paul hoped that if the worst had happened, then with a scale of distances and with Vicki’s knowledge of the geography they’d be able to locate the university’s Jubilee Sports Centre by dead reckoning.
As they rowed, the ferry grew smaller and finally became lost in the gloom. Paul felt cut off from the world. He was very glad for Vicki’s company.
Vicki glanced over her shoulder in the direction the boat moved. “I don’t like this,” she said at a whisper. “We should see houses, but all I see are trees. I’ve never been there, but I don’t think the spit was supposed to be heavily forested.”
Paul looked. “And big trees, too. Doesn’t look very English to me.”
They rowed without talking and Paul could only hear the splash of the oars and creak of the oarlocks. The closer they got to shore, the clearer the air became. When the mist had entirely lifted, they saw a sandy shore behind which was a forest of great trees. The trees were not tightly spaced, but they were large; their high branches merged to form a continuous canopy. The sun, bright but low in the sky, cast long shadows, and against the green brightness, the terrain beneath the canopy looked dark and creepy.
Then came a scraping sound as the boat slid onto the bank.
“Well, we’re here.” Paul pulled in his oar, then fetched the map from the locker.
Vicki pulled in her oar and hopped out of the boat. Paul followed.
Gazing at the great trees, Vicki said, “They’re oaks. I was taught that our forests looked like this—before people hacked most of them down.”
Paul laughed nervously. “It sounds almost as if you don’t believe this is twenty-first-century England.”
“I’m not really sure it is,” said Vicki softly.
“We have oak groves in Massachusetts,” said Paul dismissively. “They look sort of like these. No need to go back a hundred years.”
Vicki gazed into the forest. “A lot more than a hundred years.”
“Come on,” said Paul, reaching into the boat to lift out his bicycle. “This has got to be just some remnant of those forests.” He reached into the boat again for Vicki’s bike. “Geez! A lot more than a hundred years. No way!”
“Hey,” she said. “This time-travel idea was yours, not mine. Are you saying you were making it all up?”
“No,” he said weakly. “But . . . but I can’t say I really believed it. It was just a physics hypothesis. Theoretical.” He shot a glance at the great oaks. “It’s funny though, how you can believe something and not believe it at the same time.”
“There’s supposed to be a little village. Calshot.” Vicki looked off into the forest. “It can’t be very far ahead.”
“Yeah.” Paul studied the map. “Not far ahead at all. And if there isn’t a village there, then . . .”
“Let’s zero our bike odometers and take a compass reading.” Vicki reset hers and got back astride her bike. “A map, compass, and odometer navigation exercise. Just like you wanted.”
“Yeah, really.” Paul took the reading and slid the map into his shirt pocket. He pointed the way, mounted his bike, and then stopped.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, really.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” said Vicki. “You look almost as if you’re about to cry.”
“It’s just . . . it’s just that when I’m doing physics, I do it because it’s fun. I don’t think about who it might hurt or if I’m putting someone I care about in danger.” Paul squeezed the handbrakes. “It’s like I’m a kid—a bratty irresponsible kid.”
Vicki touched his arm. “I find your nature, well . . . yes, childlike—and sort of endearing.”
Paul, feeling himself flush, stood hard on the raised pedal. “Let’s go!”
Although the sun was lost to them, the light was sufficient and they made good time as their bikes, side by side, moved silently over the flat and firm ground between the trees.
A flash of movement caught Paul’s eye and he gripped tight his hand brakes. Vicki braked a few feet farther ahead.
Two children froze from their play and stood staring. Both were boys: barefoot, one about ten, the other seven or eight, with flaxen hair and blue-gray eyes. Each wore only a single garment that looked like a tee shirt—brown, loose fitting, and r
eaching almost to their knees.
Paul wheeled his bike forward to be even with Vicki’s. “Hi!” he called out.
“Frea Aelmihtig!” said the older kid, his eyes wide and fearful.
Paul rolled his bike a yard forward. “Come on. I’m friendly. I won’t eat you guys.”
The taller boy turned to the other and shouted, “Rinnath on waeg!” As one, they turned and ran. After a few seconds, they were lost from sight.
“Geez!” said Paul, looking the way they’d gone.
“Frea Aelmihtig. Frea Aelmihtig,” said Vicki, under her breath. “I know that.” After a pause she intoned, “Firum foldu, Frea Aelmihtig—the Earth for Men, God almighty.” She gasped and added, “Oh, my gosh!”
Paul turned to her. “What’s the matter?”
“Do you know any Old English?” she said in a soft, far-off voice.
“I knew an Old English Sheepdog once.” When she didn’t answer, Paul felt suddenly cold. “Are you saying they were speaking Old English? You mean like Chaucer or something?”
“I mean like Beowulf.”
“Beowulf! That’s a thousand years ago. We can’t have swapped back a millennium.” Paul tried unsuccessfully to laugh. “That’s a long, long time.”
“Time.” Vicki shook her head. “It seems to me that time is acting very mean.”
“Mean?” Paul managed a bark of a laugh. “The M in GMT.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. Just babbling. Come on. Let’s see about this Calshot village.” He bore down on a pedal. “A thousand years. No way!”
It took under a minute for them to break into a clearing where there stood about a dozen small houses clustered in a semicircle. The structures of unpainted wood had thatched roofs and very low walls. Paul’s gaze, though, was riveted on a line of ten or fifteen men standing shoulder to shoulder facing them. Most carried spears and they all looked angry—and more than a little disquieted by the bicycles.
“Looks like we were expected,” Vicki whispered.
“Word gets around,” Paul whispered back. “I wouldn’t have thought that word of mouth could outrun bicycles.”
Vicki nodded at one of the doorways where the two boys they’d encountered looked out. “But it seems kids can outrun them.”
One of the men took a few steps forward and stared hard at Paul. “Ond p, hwceartp?”
Paul could tell he was being asked a question—but that’s all he could tell.
“Hwanon cymon git?” The man stared for a few seconds, as if waiting for an answer. Then he turned to those around him and whispered. All at once, the villagers surged forward with spears held for action.
Paul knew it was too late to escape; he was astraddle his bike and the bike was pointed the wrong way. But maybe he could get up enough speed to force his way through the line of men. And if he couldn’t, he still might be able to open up a path so Vicki could get free. He had just moved a foot to a pedal when he heard Vicki shout, “Hwaet!” He glanced at her and then at the men; the attackers had stopped in their tracks.
“Hwaet! WiGcr-Dena in gecr-dagum,” Vicki shouted, gesturing with the hand not holding the handlebars, “peod-cyninga, prym gefrunon.”
The men looked at her with puzzled expressions, and some of them lowered their spears.
Vicki leaned in toward Paul. “Let’s get out of here!” she whispered.
Taking advantage of the men’s confusion, Vicki and Paul turned their bikes around, mounted, and sped off. After about a five-minute ride, out of breath from the exertion and fear, they stopped to rest.
Paul, still on his bike, leaned against a tree. “What the heck did you say to them back there?”
“I haven’t a clue, really,” said Vicki, dismounting and breathing heavily. “It was the beginning of Beowulf.” She gave a self-effacing smile. “We learn that in school.”
“And why were they so angry?”
“The Anglo-Saxons weren’t fond of strangers.”
“Not fond is a nice way of putting it,” said Paul with a grunt of a laugh. “You learned that in school, I bet.”
Vicki nodded. “If someone comes into a village without welcome or without calling out, the villagers have a right to kill him.” She reprised her smile. “Or so I’ve been taught.”
“I don’t think I like it here,” said Paul. He was ready to believe that Dr. Richardson had done the incredible. Now he hoped he could make himself believe he could undo the incredible. “We’ve got to get to Southampton.”
“How close do you need to be?”
“To the nexus?” Paul thought for a few seconds. “I don’t know, exactly. It’s a surface-wave phenomenon so it has a one over R rather than an inverse square law, I think.”
“Is that an answer?”
There came a whap, whap, whap sound from above, and Paul hunted for its source. “Hey!” He pointed. “A helicopter. That is the most comforting sight I’ve seen in hours.”
“Probably from the Island.” Vicki looked thoughtfully up at it. “I wonder why it makes that sound—since the blades move smoothly.”
“Hard to explain if you don’t know physics.” Paul shifted his bike to a low gear. “I think we’d better get going. We might be able to reach Southampton before it gets really dark.”
With seeming reluctance, Vicki tore her gaze from the aircraft. “I think we should lie low until it does get really dark.”
“Why?”
“Myrkfaelen.”
“What?”
“Hard to explain if you don’t know Old English.”
“All right. All right. I’m sorry about the physics arrogance. Another occupational hazard, I’m afraid. I truly am sorry.”
Vicki gave a warm chuckle. “I think we’re both a little on edge. Well, anyway, myrkfaelen means fear of the dark.”
Paul gave a quizzical look.
“The Anglo-Saxons were afraid of the dark. If there’s a bright enough moon, bandits will travel at night, otherwise nobody does.” A howl, long and deep, reverberated through woods. “Um . . . except wolves.”
“Wolves?” Paul shivered. “Let’s not wait for night.”
“Yes.” Vicki looked nervously around. “Maybe that would be best. It’ll be dark soon enough anyway.”
Paul straddled his bike again and rummaged through his pack. “We should probably wear these now.” He pulled out a headband-mounted LED flashlight and slipped the elastic on so that the lamp sat in the middle of his forehead.
While Vicki found and slipped on her own LED unit, Paul pulled the map from his pocket. He examined it under the brilliant blue-white LEDs, then put it away and switched off the light. “Okay. Let’s go.” He pointed. “That way!”
They made slow time in the increasing darkness, with frequent stops to check the compass and odometer readings against the map. Despite the darkness, they rode with their lights off. They had no wish to attract bandits or wolves.
“It’s amazing how well one can see in the dark,” said Paul as he rode, “after the eyes become dark-adapted.” He stopped for a map check. “Except for reading maps.”
“What will happen when you throw the switch on your capsule?” said Vicki, stopping her bike and looking over Paul’s shoulder at the map.
“The island of Britain should swap back into the twenty-first century.”
“But we’re on the eleventh century version,” said Vicki. “What will happen to us?”
Paul put away the map and bit his lower lip. “I think that since we weren’t on it originally, we can’t be swapped back with it—conservation of mass. I think we’ll stay in the twenty-first century.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I think.” Paul remounted his bike and started away.
Vicki hurried to catch up. “And if you’re right,” she said, pausing for breath, “where will we wind up?”
“Probably at Richardson’s nexus—where he threw the switch on his module.” A few seconds later Paul added, “And we probably won’t be h
armed—for the same reason the planes probably didn’t crash—avoidance of excessive quantum changes.”
“Probably!”
“I’m sorry.” Paul threw her a glance. “It’s the best I can theorize at the moment.”
At their next compass and map stop, Vicki asked, “What if it doesn’t work?”
“We just go back to the Isle of Wight. I’m sure Richardson, in his England, will find a solution.” Paul cast a glance at the sky, what little he could see of it through the tree branches. “I’m sure of it.”
“Richardson’s England,” said Vicki, in a voice filled with yearning. “A modern England in a . . . an eleventh-century world?”
“Yes.” Paul explored the idea. “And in an eleventh-century Solar System—I think.” He lowered his eyes from the canopy—and froze. “Uh-oh!” Ahead, a band of sturdy men stood firm, like truncated oaks among the forest’s mighty trees. Most carried spears, the rest, swords. These were not scared villagers. Catching movements out of the corners of his eyes, Paul saw more men coming from left and right. There was no escape. And Paul had no illusions that Vicki reciting Beowulf would help.
Vicki seemed to understand that as well. “This is serious,” she whispered. “It’s a raiding party. Norwegian or Danish, I think.”
One of the men ventured forward and barked out some words. They sounded like a command. Then, as the men began to converge on them, Vicki threw her hand to her forehead and as her hand came away, a brilliant blue-white light shone out illuminating the man in front. He froze like a statue.
Paul, embarrassed by the slowness of his reaction, switched on his LED lamp as well. Then, swiveling his head from side to side, casting a beam over the raiders, he screamed loudly and gutturally. He bore heavily down on the pedals and felt his bicycle lurch forward. He could see Vicki leaning on her pedals as well. The men in front didn’t give way—but neither did they move to stop them.
Unimpeded, the two bicycles raced by the men. Only after Paul and Vicki had pedaled furiously for about five minutes did Paul dare to look behind. He signaled a halt. “Okay. We can rest now.”
From then on, they rode with their lights on.
A little after midnight, Paul signaled their final halt. He dismounted and eased his bicycle to the ground. “This is, as close as I can tell, Southampton University.” He gave a soft yet harsh laugh. “The grounds of the university, that is.”