Time Patrol

by Poul Anderson

  A small smile curved her mouth. "Thank you, but look closer. I am very tired, very ready for my holiday."

  In and around the turquoise eyes he did see hauntedness. What more has she witnessed since last we said good-bye? he thought. What have I been spared? "I understand. Yeah, better than I like to. You had ten people's work loaded on you. I should have stayed and helped."

  She shook her head. "No. I realized it then, and I still do. Once the crisis was resolved, the outfit had much better uses for you, the Unattached agent. You had authority to assign yourself to the remainder of the mission, but a higher claim on your lifespan." Again she smiled. "Old dutiful Manse."

  Whereas you, the Specialist who really knows the milieu, must see the job through. With whatever assistance you got from your fellow researchers and from auxiliaries newly trained for the purpose—not much, huh?—you must watch over events; make certain they continued on the Tacitus One course; no doubt intervene, most carefully, now and then, here and there: till at last they were out of the unstable space-time zone and could safely be left to themselves.

  Oh, you have earned your holiday, all right.

  "How long were you in the field?" he asked.

  "From 70 to 95 A.D. Of course, I skipped about, so on my world line it totalled . . . somewhat over a year. You, Manse? What have you been busy with?"

  "Frankly, nothing except recuperation," he admitted. "I knew you'd return to this week because of your parents, as well as your public persona, so I went directly to it, allowed us a few days' rest, then wrote you."

  Was that fair? I've bounced back. For one thing, I'm less sensitive than you; what happens in history racks me less savagely. For another, you've endured those added months yonder.

  It was as if her gaze sought behind his face. "You're sweet." Hastily laughing, she seized his hands. "But why do we stand here? Come, let us be comfortable."

  They proceeded to the room of pictures and books. She had set the low table with coffee, canapés, miscellaneous accessories, the Scotch she knew he liked—yes, the very Glenlivet, which he couldn't even recall ever mentioning specifically to her. Side by side they took the sofa. She leaned back and beamed. "Comfort?" she purred. "No, luxury. Once again I am learning to appreciate my birth era."

  Is she really relaxing, or is that a pretense? I sure can't. Everard sat on the edge of his cushion. He poured coffee for them both and a neat whisky for himself. When he cast her a glance, she gestured no and took her cup. "This is early for me," she said.

  "Hey, I wasn't proposing to tie one on," he assured her. "We'll take it easy, and talk, and go out to dinner, I hope. How about that delightful little Caribbean place? Or I can wreak havoc on a rijstaffel, if you prefer."

  "And afterward?" she asked quietly.

  "Well, uh—" He felt the blood in his cheeks.

  "You see why I need to keep my head clear."

  "Janne! Do you think I—"

  "No, certainly not. You are an honorable man. More honorable than is quite good for you, I believe." She laid a hand on his knee. "We will, as you suggest, talk."

  The hand lifted before he could throw an arm around her. Through an open window drifted the mildness of spring. Traffic sounded like distant surf.

  "It is no use playing merry," she said after a while.

  "I guess not. We may as well go straight to the serious." Oddly, that eased him a trifle. He sat back, glass in hand. You inhaled this delicate smokiness as much as you sipped it.

  "What will you do next, Manse?"

  "Who knows? We never have a dearth of problems." He turned to look at her. "I want to hear about your doings. You succeeded, obviously. I'd have been informed if there were any anomalies."

  "Such as more copies of Tacitus Two?"

  "None. That single manuscript exists, and whatever transcriptions the Patrol made of it, but now it's just a curiosity."

  He felt her slight shiver. "An object uncaused, formed out of nothing for no reason. What a terrifying universe. It was easier being ignorant about variable reality. Sometimes I regret I was recruited."

  "And also when you are present at certain episodes. I know." He wanted to kiss the unhappiness off her lips. Should I try? Could I?

  "Yes." The bright head lifted, the voice throbbed. "But then I think of the exploring, the discovering, the helping, and I am glad again."

  "Good lass. Well, tell me about your adventures." A slow lead-up to the real question. "I haven't retrieved your report yet, because I wanted to hear it from you personally."

  Her spirit flagged. "You had better get the report if you are interested," she said, looking across the room to the picture of the Veil Nebula.

  "What? . . . Oh. Tough for you to talk about."

  "Yes."

  "But you did succeed. You did get history secured, and in the right pattern, with peace and justice."

  "A measure of peace and justice. For a time."

  "That's the best human beings can ever expect, Janne."

  "I know."

  "We'll skip the details." Were they really that gory? My impression was that reconstruction went pretty smoothly, and the Low Countries did rather well in the Empire till it started coming apart. "But can't you tell me a few things? What about the people we met? Burhmund?"

  Floris's tone lightened a bit. "He received amnesty, like everyone else. His wife and sister were restored to him unharmed. He retired to his lands in Batavia, where he ended his days modestly prosperous, a kind of elder statesman. The Romans, too, respected and often consulted him.

  "Cerialis became governor of Britain, where he conquered the Brigantes. Tacitus's father-in-law Agricola served under him, and you may recall that the historian rates him well.

  "Classicus—"

  "Never mind for now," Everard interrupted. "Veleda—Edh?"

  "Ah, yes. After bringing about that meeting at the river, she disappears from the chronicle." The complete chronicle, retrieved by time travelers.

  "I remember. How come? Did she die?"

  "Not for another twenty years. A ripe old age in that era." Floris frowned. Did dread touch her anew? "I wondered. You would think her fate would interest Tacitus enough for him to mention it."

  "Not if she went into obscurity."

  "She didn't, quite. Could it be that I was making my own change in the past? When I reported my doubts, I was ordered to proceed and told that in fact this was a proper part of history."

  "Okay, then it was. Don't worry. It could be a trivial glitch in causality. If so, it doesn't matter. That kind happens a lot, and has no consequences of any importance. Or it could straightforwardly be due to Tacitus not knowing or caring what became of Veleda after she ceased to be a political force. She did, didn't she?"

  "In a way. Although—The program I thought of and suggested, and that the Patrol approved, it occurred to me because of what I knew, what I had seen, before I had any idea the Patrol exists. I heartened Edh, foretold what she would and must do, saw to the necessary arrangements, watched over her, appeared to her whenever she seemed to need her goddess—" Again Everard saw Floris troubled. "The future was creating the past. I hope I will escape any more such experiences. Not that this was horrible. No, it was worthwhile, I felt that it justified my life. But—" Her voice faded away.

  "Eerie," Everard supplied. "I know."

  "Yes," she said softly, "you have your own secrets, don't you?"

  "Not from the Patrol."

  "From those you care about. Things that would hurt you too much to speak of, or would hurt them too much to hear."

  This is cutting near the bone. "Okay, what about Edh? I trust you made her as happy as possible." Everard paused. "I'm sure you did."

  "Were you ever on the island of Walcheren?" Floris asked.

  "M-m, no. Down close to the Belgian border, isn't it? Wait. I've a vague recollection you once made a remark about archaeological finds there."

  "Yes. They are mostly stones with Latin inscriptions, from about the second and
third centuries. Thank offerings, usually for a safe voyage to Britain and back. The goddess to whom they are dedicated had a temple at one of the North Sea ports of embarkation. She is represented on some of the stones, with a ship or a dog, often bearing a horn of plenty or surrounded by fruit and grain. Her name was Nehalennia."

  "Fairly important, then, at least in that area."

  "She did what gods are supposed to do, gave courage and solace, made men a little more decent than they might otherwise have been, and sometimes opened their eyes to beauty."

  "Wait!" Everard sat straight. A prickling went up his spine and over his scalp. "That deva of Veleda's—"

  "The ancient Nordic goddess of fertility and the sea, Nerthus, Niaerdh, Naerdha, Nerha, many different versions of the name. Veleda made her the avenging deity of war."

  Everard regarded Floris for an intense moment before he said, "And you got Veleda to proclaim her once more peaceful and bring her south. That's as . . . as marvelous an operation as I've ever heard of."

  Her glance dropped from his. "No, not really. The potential was there, above all in Edh herself. What a woman she was. What might she have done in a luckier age? . . . On Walcheren the goddess was called Neha. She had become minor, even as an agricultural and maritime divinity. A primitive association with hunting still clung to her. Veleda arrived, revitalized the cult, gave it fresh elements suited to the civilization that was transforming her people. They came to speak of the goddess with a Latin tag, Neha Lenis, Neha the Gentle. In time that turned into Nehalennia."

  "She must have mattered a lot, if they worshiped her centuries later."

  "Evidently. Sometime I would like to trace out the history, if the Patrol can spare that much lifespan of mine." Floris sighed. "In the end, of course, the Empire collapsed, the Franks and Saxons ravaged around, and when a new order of things arose it was Christian. But I like to imagine that something of Nehalennia lingered on."

  Everard nodded. "Me too, from what you say. It could well have. A lot of medieval saints were pagan gods in disguise, and those that were historical often took on attributes of the gods, in folklore or in the Church itself. Midsummer fires were still lighted, though it was now the Eve of Saint John. Saint Olaf fought trolls and monsters like Thor before him. Even the Virgin Mary has aspects of Isis, and I daresay quite a few legends about her were originally local myths. . . ." He shook himself. "You're familiar with this. And it is straying kind of far. How was Edh's life?"

  Floris looked beyond him and this year. Her words flowed slow. "She grew old in honor. She never married, but she was like a mother to the people. The island was low, a birthplace of ships, like her girlhood home, and the temple of Nehalennia stood on the edge of her beloved sea. I think—I can't be sure, for how much can a goddess know of a mortal's heart?—I think she became . . . serene. Is that what I am trying to say? Certainly as she lay dying—" The voice caught. "—as she lay on her deathbed—" Floris fought the tears and lost.

  Everard drew her to him, put her head on his shoulder and stroked her hair. Her fingers clutched at his shirt. "Easy, lass, easy," he whispered. "Some memories will always hurt. You came to her that one last time, didn't you?"

  "Yes," she mumbled against him. "What else could I do?"

  "Sure. How could you not have? You eased her passing. What's wrong with that?"

  "She—she asked—and I promised—"

  Floris wept.

  "A life beyond the grave," Everard realized. "A life with you, forever in the sea-home of Niaerdh. And she went happily into the dark."

  Floris tore from him. "It was a lie!" she yelled. She sprang to her feet, stumbled around the coffee table, paced back and forth on the floor. Sometimes her hands strained against one another, sometimes fist beat palm, over and over. "All those years were a lie, a trick, I was using her! And she believed in me!"

  Everard decided he had better stay seated. He poured himself a new drink. "Calm down, Janne," he urged. "You did what you had to, for the whole world's sake. And you did it lovingly. As for Edh, you gave her everything she could have wished for."

  "Bedriegerij—false, empty, like so much else I have done."

  Everard ran the silky fire over his tongue. "Listen, I've gotten to know you rather well. You're as honest a person as I've ever met. Too damn honest, in fact. You're also a very kind person by nature, which matters more. Sincerity is the most overrated virtue in the catalogue. Janne, you're wrong when you imagine there's anything here to forgive. But go ahead anyway, put your common sense in gear and forgive yourself."

  She stopped, confronted him, gulped, wiped the tears, and spoke with a gradually strengthening steadiness: "Yes, I . . . understand. I, I thought about this . . . for days . . . before I made my proposal to the Patrol. Afterward I s-s-stuck by it. You are right, it was necessary, and I know that many stories people live by are myths, and many myths were manufactured. Pardon this scene. It was quite a short while ago, on my world line, that Veleda died in the arms of Nehalennia."

  "And the memory overwhelmed you. Sure. I'm sorry."

  "It was not your fault. How could you have known?" Floris drew a long breath. The hands clenched at her sides. "But I do not want to lie more than I must. I never want to lie to you, Manse."

  "What do you mean?" he asked, half in fear, half in foreknowledge.

  "I have been thinking about us," she said. "Thinking hard. I suppose what we did, coming together, was wrong—"

  "Well, ordinarily it would've been, but in this case it didn't foul us up in our job. If anything, I felt inspired. It was damn wonderful."

  "It was for me." Still she grew inexorably more and more calm. "You came here today in hopes of renewing it, did you not?"

  He attempted a grin. "I plead guilty. You're hell on wheels in bed, darling."

  "You are no prutsener." The faint smile died. "What further had you in mind?"

  "More of the same. Often."

  "Always?"

  Everard sat mute.

  "It would be difficult," Floris said. "You Unattached, I a Specialist field agent. We would spend most of our lives apart."

  "Unless you transferred to data coordination or something else where you could work at home." Everard leaned forward. "You know, that's an excellent idea in itself. You've got the brains for it. Be done with all that risk and hardship and, yes, witness of suffering which you're forbidden to prevent."

  She shook her head. "I do not wish to. In spite of everything, I feel I am worth most in the field, my field, and will be until I am too old and feeble."

  If you survive so long. "Yeah. Challenge, adventure, fulfillment, and the occasional chance to help. You're that sort."

  "I could come to hate the man who made me give them up. I do not wish this either."

  "Well, uh—" Everard rose. "All right," he said. It felt like bailing out of a plane. You gave yourself to your parachute. "Not much domestic bliss, but in between missions, something extra special and entirely our own. Are you game?"

  "Are you?" she answered.

  In midstride toward her, he halted.

  "You are aware of what my work can require," she said. Her face had gone pale. It's not a blushing matter, he thought at the back of his mind. "On this past mission, too. I was not all the time a goddess, Manse. Now and then I found it useful to be a Germanic woman far from home. Or I simply wanted a night's forgetfulness."

  The blood thudded in his temples. "I'm no prude, Janne."

  "But you are a Middle American farm boy. You have told me so, and I have learned it is true. I can be your friend, your partner, your mistress, but never, down inside you, anything more. Be honest."

  "I'm trying," he said harshly.

  "It would be worse for me," Floris finished. "I would have to keep too much from you. I would feel I was betraying you. That makes no sense, no, but it is what I would feel. Manse, we had better not fall more in love. We had better say good-bye."

  They spent the next few hours together, talking. Then she laid
her head on his breast, he hugged her for a minute, and he departed.

  IV

  Mary, mother of God, mother of sorrows, mother of salvation, be with us now and at the hour of our death.

  Westward we sail, but night overtakes us. Watch over us through the dark and bring us on into day. Grant that this our ship bear the most precious of cargoes, your blessing.

  Pure as yourself, your evenstar shines above the sunset. Guide us by your light. Lay your gentleness on the seas, breathe us forward in our faring and home again to our loves, carry us at last by your prayers into Heaven.

  Ave Stella Maris!

  THE YEAR OF THE RANSOM

  10 September 1987

  "Excellent loneliness." Yes, Kipling could say it. I remember how those lines of his rolled up and down my spine when first I heard them, Uncle Steve reading aloud to me. Though that must have been a dozen years ago, they still do. The poem's about the sea and the mountains, of course; but so are the Galapagos, the Enchanted Islands.

  Today I need just a little of their loneliness. The tourists were mostly bright, decent people. Still, a season of herding them along the trails, answering the same questions over and over, does begin to wear on a person. Now they've become fewer, my summer job has ended, soon I'll be home Stateside, commencing grad school. Here is my last chance.

  "Wanda, dear!" The word Roberto used is querida, which could mean quite a lot. Not necessarily. I wonder about it for a flicker or two while he: "Please, at least let me come along."

  Headshake. "I'm sorry, my friend." No, not exactly; amigo doesn't translate one-on-one into English, either. "I'm not sulking or anything. Far from it. All I want is a few hours by myself. Haven't you ever?"

  I'm being honest. My fellow guides are fine. I wish the friendships I've made among them will keep. Surely they will if we can get back together. But that's uncertain. I may or may not be able to return next year. Eventually I may or may not make my dream of joining the research staff at Darwin Station. It can't take many scientists; or another dream could come along meanwhile and take me. This trip, where half a dozen of us are knocking around the archipelago with a boat and a camping permit, may well be the end of what we've called el compañerismo, the Fellowship. Oh, I suppose a Christmas card or two.