Tales of the Wold Newton Universe

by Philip José Farmer

  A push here, a nudge there.

  The wind shifted, and Gribardsun picked up the scent again, the scent which he could not believe. He whirled.

  “You cannot be here,” he said in Khokarsan. He was too surprised to consider any alternative languages, but in any event Khokarsan was a probable choice for this time and place—even if the man he spoke to could not be of this time and place.

  “Why not?” the other replied, in the same language. Then: “Do you know me?”

  Gribardsun did know the man. How come the knowledge was not reciprocal?

  The last time Gribardsun had seen the man, in Africa, in 1912, the man had looked like a native witch doctor. Gribardsun, a young man of twenty-three, had saved the witch doctor from a lion. In gratitude, the witch doctor had offered him everlasting life. Gribardsun had laughed, but said why not. He didn’t believe the man, but if there were any truth to the claims, he’d have been a fool to decline the offer.

  After a procedure which lasted a month, and greatly sickened him, he’d wondered if he had been a fool to accept. The process involved multiple blood transfusions from the witch doctor and continuous imbibing of a concoction brewed from rare herbs.

  But, as he had learned over decades, centuries, and finally millennia, it had worked.

  Gribardsun thought about the man’s question, “Do you know me?” The man smelled exactly like the witch doctor, but looked nothing like him, which he didn’t understand. When Gribardsun had met the man in 1912, the man must have been very, very old. This made sense, if he thought about it. The man was an immortal, and had passed the secret of immortality on to Gribardsun.

  The man before him was the younger version, although he could not explain the difference in appearance. This man was Caucasoid, a large man, with hazel eyes, heavy brows, and a Roman nose. His hair was dark, his skin bronzed, and he looked to be in his late thirties or perhaps early forties. Like Gribardsun, he wore clothing appropriate for the jungle, which is to say, very little: a loincloth of antelope hide, a leather pouch, and tough moccasins.

  Gribardsun responded to the man’s question: “Perhaps.”

  “I don’t know you,” the man replied. “Or rather, I should say, I have never met you. But I know who you are. I’ve been looking for you, Sahhindar.”

  Gribardsun shrugged. “Some call me that.”

  “Sahhindar, the Gray-Eyed Archer God,” the man continued, and he smiled broadly. “Also the god of plants, of bronze, and of Time. As I’ve listened to the legends and stories about you over the centuries, it’s become clear to me that you are a fellow immortal. I confess that I did not connect the dots, however, until this very minute, that you are also a time traveler. I had never assumed that ‘the god of Time’ was a literal appellation. That was my mistake.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Perfect.” The man grinned at him again. “Straight to the point. I sought you out to discover your source of youth.”

  Gribardsun’s mind raced. “Why?”

  “Because it may be more effective than my own.”

  “Meaning?”

  The man smiled his infernal smile.

  Gribardsun put his hand on the hilt of the big steel hunting knife which hung in a sheath on his belt and said, “Tell me, or I will remove that smile and replace it with a red one.”

  “Now that would be a grievous mistake, and I think you know it,” the man said. “But, I will tell you. There is no point in not being forthright, for once, because this must happen.

  “If I am correct,” the man continued, “you do not age at all. I do age, albeit extraordinarily slowly, and barring accident or murder, someday my body will be very, very old, and it will die. This day may come after millennia, or tens of millennia, but it will come. I would prefer that it didn’t.”

  “And why would I help you with anything, assuming I’m in a position to do so?” Gribardsun asked, his gray eyes piercing the other man’s.

  “I think,” the man replied, “you are beginning to suspect that you have no choice. If, that is, you would like me to reciprocate in the future. That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?”

  “If you are correct,” Gribardsun said, “how were you—will you—be able to appear to me in the guise of a native African witch doctor?”

  “I have no idea,” the man said, grinning, “but now that you’ve told me that’s what I need to do, it appears I’ll have plenty of time to figure it out.”

  “You never told me the precise herbs needed, the exact recipe,” Gribardsun said.

  “Aha! Herbs. The god of plants. Well?” the man prodded.

  “I am observant. And an expert botanist. But my knowledge of the herbs used is nonetheless imperfect, and is based on best guesses at the plants and herbs which were growing nearby when I received the treatment.”

  “But these plants and herbs do exist in this time as well?”

  “Yes, or at least some that are very closely related.”

  “Tell me, show me, and I will be on my way.”

  “It won’t be that simple,” Gribardsun said. “The herbal mixture is a vile brew, and I look forward to forcing it down your throat, but it is useless without the other component of the treatment.”

  “Which is?”

  Gribardsun’s eyes were hooded. The other man may have had him over the proverbial barrel, but likewise he too had the man over a barrel. He was in control now.

  Gribardsun patted the hilt of his steel knife again. “A blood transfusion. From me to you.”

  The man’s perpetual grin faded a few degrees.

  “Whatever it takes,” he said. “I’ve endured far worse.”

  “I cannot guarantee the treatment will work as perfectly on you as it has seemed to work on me,” Gribardsun warned. “There are slight differences in the plants and herbs, as I mentioned.”

  “I’ll take the risk,” the man said dryly. “Can we get on with it?”

  “What is your name?” Gribardsun asked.

  A sly look came over the man’s face and his eyes seemed to shift color, taking on a faint yellowish tint. “I’ve many names, just as you seem to have, Sahhindar. But you can call me Kethnu. It’s as good a name as any other right now.”

  “Kethnu. ‘Head man.’ High opinion of yourself.”

  Kethnu shrugged, and his infernal grin broadened again.

  “Kethnu, sit down,” Gribardsun ordered. “I hope you don’t have anyone who will miss you for the next month or so.”

  He smiled and drew his blade.

  EAST RIDING OF YORKSHIRE, NEAR THE VILLAGE OF WOLD NEWTON 13 DECEMBER 1795, 2:40 P.M.

  The man Gribardsun had known as Kethnu stood alone in the middle of the field. He was a large man, although perhaps not quite as tall as Gribardsun, and exuded an air of power in the same way Gribardsun did. He still looked to be in his late thirties, and wore his sideburns long. A bushy mustache perched under a Roman nose.

  He wore riding dress, similar to Gribardsun’s, appropriate for the cold December day and weather: a white, high-collared double-breasted waistcoat, and snug leather riding breeches reaching almost to the tops of his boots.

  Unlike Gribardsun, who was no dandy, Kethnu wore around his neck a sterling silver quizzing glass attached to a long black ribbon. The quizzing glass’s handle was six-sided and crafted from a pearlescent blue material which Gribardsun couldn’t identify.

  In his right hand, Kethnu held a large pocket watch attached to a silver chain which disappeared into a pouch on his waistcoat. The pocket watch’s lid was of the same pearlescent material as the quizzing glass’s handle, and was embossed with an elaborate pattern highlighted by a brilliant blue star sapphire. The blue sapphire reminded Gribardsun of the nethkarna, the seed of the Tree of Kho, which the Khokarsan oracles had planted beneath their temples to tap into the root system across Africa, thus gaining their oracular powers.

  It was from this watch that the terrible clangings emanated.

  “It’s been a long time,”
the other immortal greeted Gribardsun, in between cycles of the riotous nine clangs. There was no trace of irony in the comment. His gray eyes, touched with green, glinted.

  “It has,” the Englishman acknowledged. “I don’t suppose you call yourself ‘Kethnu’ any longer.”

  “No indeed,” the other man replied. “So much time, and so many names. One which I keep coming back to of late—of late being relative, of course—is XauXaz.”

  “From ‘head man’ to ‘high one.’”

  “You are a linguist, my friend. You know your Proto-Germanic.”

  “The millennia have not taught you humility,” Gribardsun said.

  “You expected otherwise?” XauXaz asked. Chuckling, he sketched a bow and gestured theatrically to the pocket watch. “Now I am also a time traveler.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Gribardsun replied. “It is not possible for anyone else to travel to any time during my lifetime—which is to say, all the way back to 12,000 B.C.”

  “It is only prevented for you,” XauXaz answered. “This time distorter works on different principles. It opens gates, and allows one to pass through them, rather than simply shifting stationary masses in time.”

  Gribardsun gestured to the distorter. “Turn it off.”

  XauXaz smiled and shook his head slowly.

  Gribardsun turned and looked in the distance. Even with his excellent eyesight, he could barely make out the carriage party, still out on Rainsburgh Lane. The horrendous tolling, symbol of murder and death to those carriage passengers, was a deterrent. There was no doubt they would avoid this place, from which the din originated, in an effort to keep the ladies and their unborn children safe.

  It was 2:43 P.M.

  At three o’clock it would be too late.

  Gribardsun attacked.

  XauXaz parried, and the two men gripped each other’s hands, boots digging into the earth as they thrust against each other.

  They pressed back and forth, each struggling for an advantage, and Gribardsun was inwardly surprised to discover the other man seemed to nearly match him in strength.

  As if reading his mind, XauXaz grunted, “My bones are thicker than any modern man’s, with greater surface area for muscle attachment. Remember, I am a Cro-Magnon.”

  Gribardsun thrust his right arm downward, caught XauXaz’s lower thigh in a crushing grip in his strong fingers, and hoisted the other man above his head as if lifting a barbell. He spun around a few times to disrupt XauXaz’s equilibrium and catapulted him headfirst to the ground.

  No follower of gentlemen’s rules of civilized fighting, Gribardsun followed up with a sharp kick to the abdomen, causing XauXaz to expel a great rush of air, and another kick to the face.

  XauXaz rolled away and came back up on his feet, blood streaming from his mouth. “Of course, your bones are much thicker as well.” He grinned. “I’ve been visiting the Ladies Greystoke in their bedchambers for quite some time now. I am your grandfather several times over. How does that make you feel, my boy?”

  Gribardsun dived at the other man and took his feet out from under him. XauXaz fell on top of him and they tangled and rolled. The jungle man thrust powerful legs and flipped his opponent over his head, but XauXaz landed deftly on his feet.

  The Englishman came back to his feet as well but the other man was at him, and he took a solid one-two punch to the kidneys.

  He barely twitched at the pain, side-stepped a third punch, and jackhammered his foot into XauXaz’s jaw.

  XauXaz was momentarily stunned and the other man pressed the advantage, slamming his opponent’s face down in the dirt. He put an elbow firmly in the back of the Old Stone Age man’s neck, and wrenched his arm behind his back at an increasingly unnatural angle.

  Gribardsun tugged at the twisted arm and simultaneously pressed down with his elbow, eliciting a grunt. He reached under XauXaz’s torso, felt for the silver chain, and pulled the outsized pocket watch from underneath the other man’s body. Still holding XauXaz immobile, he worked the clasp, popped the watch lid, and started to fumble at the buttons inside.

  “I wouldn’t,” XauXaz said. His voice was low and firm, belying his current position.

  “Then you do it,” Gribardsun said. “Turn it off, or I’ll snap your arm, followed by your neck.” He placed the watch on the ground next to the hand that was not attached to XauXaz’s twisted arm.

  XauXaz worked at the mechanism with his free hand, and the clangings stopped.

  Still holding the Cro-Magnon’s left arm firmly behind him, Gribardsun grabbed him by the nape of his neck with his right hand and lifted him bodily to his feet. He threw his right arm around the other man’s neck and exerted pressure on his throat with the crook of his elbow.

  He peered into the distance. The carriage riders had halted at the intersection of Rainsburgh Lane and the short drive leading to Wold Cottage.

  “They’ve stopped to discuss it,” XauXaz said. His voice remained calm. “They were following the bells to their source, to investigate, but now the bells have stopped. They’ve stopped also, to discuss and debate it.”

  Gribardsun watched, saying nothing.

  “Are you here to observe, or stop it from happening?” XauXaz asked.

  Gribardsun considered the wisdom of being drawn into conversation with this man. He continued to watch the carriage party, which remained stalled at the distant, too distant, driveway.

  “I was here to observe,” Gribardsun finally replied. “Now I’m here to ensure it happens.”

  “Then let me go and restart the distorter.” XauXaz’s voice was mild.

  Gribardsun tightened his arm around the other’s neck.

  “I estimate it is now 2:48 P.M.,” XauXaz said. Was that the tiniest note of desperation creeping into his voice? “Time is running out. Quite literally running out.”

  Still, Gribardsun said nothing.

  “See the small rise behind us?” XauXaz asked.

  “What of it?” Gribardsun’s voice was as immovable as the steel-corded muscles holding XauXaz fast.

  “At least let us climb up there and conceal ourselves—in case Blakeney and the rest do head this way,” XauXaz said.

  Gribardsun considered this. Then he bent down, grabbed the distorter, threw XauXaz to the ground and dragged him up the hillock.

  Reaching the top, Gribardsun took XauXaz in a firm handgrip about the throat and forced him to crouch down. Gribardsun knelt beside him. His strong fingers remained tight around XauXaz’s windpipe.

  XauXaz gestured to speak and Gribardsun loosened his clutch slightly.

  “You don’t trust me,” XauXaz croaked, mock reproach in his voice.

  “Say something worth saying,” Gribardsun said.

  “Well, you’re right not to trust me, of course. Except now. It’s ten minutes to three o’clock. Do you see those farmhands approaching from a nearby field?”

  Gribardsun gave a curt nod.

  “Their names are John Shipley and Kevin Cook,” XauXaz said. “If you know your history, you know they witnessed it too. The moment is approaching.

  “Now,” XauXaz continued, “look at the two carriages. They’re still at the driveway into Wold Cottage—about ten minutes away.”

  Gribardsun was silent. The wind gusted and coal-black hair whipped in his face.

  XauXaz pressed his point. “They’re too far away. They’re not going to make it. Give me back the distorter.”

  Gribardsun watched. The carriages sat idle while the men, tiny stick figures in the distance, appeared to confer.

  “You came here to watch it happen. Instead, you’re stopping it from happening,” XauXaz said. “Why would I have given you the elixir in 1912, if I intended to go mucking about with the timeline?”

  Gribardsun still watched. A man remounted his horse—Sebastian Noel. The coachmen clambered back onto their perches atop the carriages.

  The vehicles turned, pointing away from Wold Cottage and oriented back toward the village of Wold Newton.
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  “Give it to me.”

  Gribardsun handed over the distorter.

  XauXaz worked at it and a riotous clanging ensued, reverberating in the air and shaking them to the bone.

  They watched as, in the distance, the carriage riders spurred into action. The coachmen turned the carriages back toward Wold Cottage and drove at high speed, seeking the source of the noise which had, to them, signaled death over the past three days.

  From the other direction, the farmhands also came their way, seeking the cause of the din.

  John Gribardsun and XauXaz crouched down at the top of the rise, out of sight, to observe.

  The distorter’s awful pealing continued for several more minutes. The carriages came carefully down a dirt trail—it could hardly be called a road—and pulled up below the rise where XauXaz and Gribardsun were hidden.

  XauXaz worked at the distorter’s controls and the din ceased. The two men out of time watched as Sir Percy ordered the carriages to a halt in the middle of the field.

  The carriage party hardly had time to gather their wits when from the air all around came a series of loud claps, like pistol reports. A light like burning phosphorous blazed and streaked across the sky, hissing through the air, leaving what looked like sparks trailing behind it.

  The leading edge of the burning light struck the ground near the carriages, spewing dirt and mud and earth everywhere. The blazing light and the sizzling noise caused the horses to panic, and the passengers cried out in alarm as the carriages were pulled and tugged, but the coachmen swiftly brought the terrified beasts under control.

  The passengers were still shaken, but quickly came out of their shock. Gribardsun and XauXaz watched silently as Sir Percy, Greystoke, Holmes, Darcy, and the other men alighted and followed the burrowed trail in the ground to the end of its trajectory. They saw Topham’s shepherd, as well as the farmhands, John Shipley and Kevin Cook, come alongside. The group cautiously began digging. Eventually, as nothing untoward transpired, the women also descended and came to watch as a large stone, smoking and smelling of sulfur, was dug out from where it had buried itself almost two feet deep in the earth.