Time Patrol (62 page)

Everard rubbed his chin. "Then she's invented preaching, religious fervor, independently," he said. "How? Why?"

"We must find out," Floris responded.

"What are these new myths?" Everard inquired.

Ulstrup frowned into the distance. "It will take me long to tell you everything I have learned. And it is inchoate, not a neat theological system, you realize. And I doubt I have heard all of it, listening to her or at second hand. Certainly I have not heard what will develop as time goes on.

"But—well, she does not say it outright, perhaps she herself is not conscious of it, but she is making her goddess into a being at least as powerful, as . . . cosmic . . . as any. Naerdha is not exactly usurping Wotan's authority over the dead, but she too receives them in her hall, she too leads them in a hunt through heaven. She is becoming as much a deity of war as Tiwaz, and the destined destroyer of Rome. Like Thonar, she commands elemental forces, weather, storm, together with the sea, rivers, lakes, all water. Hers is the moon—"

"Hecate," Everard muttered.

"But she keeps her ancient precedence over begetting and birth," Ulstrup finished. "Women who die in childbed go directly to her, like fallen warriors to the Eddic Odin."

"That must appeal to women," Floris said.

"It does, it does," Ulstrup agreed. "Not that they have a separate faith—mystery cults, and sects for that matter, are unknown among the Germans—but here is a, a special devotion for them."

Everard paced to and fro in the glen. His fist beat his palm. "Yeah," he said. "That was important to the success of Christianity, in both the South and the North. It had more for women than any paganism did, even the Magna Mater. They might not convert their husbands, but they'd sure influence their children."

"Men can behold visions too." Ulstrup regarded Floris. "Do you see the same possibility that I do?"

"Yes," she answered, not quite steadily. "It could happen. Tacitus Two . . . Veleda went back into free Germany after Civilis was crushed, bearing her message, and a new religion spread among the barbarians. . . . It could grow and develop onward after her death. It would have no real competition. Oh, it would not become monotheistic or anything like that. But this goddess would be the supreme figure, around whom everything gathered. She would give folk as much, spiritually, or almost as much, as Christ could. Few would ever join the Church."

"The more so if they lacked political reason to," Everard added. "I watched the process in viking Scandinavia. Baptism was the admission ticket to civilization, with all its commercial and cultural advantages. But a collapsed West Roman Empire won't be anywhere near that attractive, and Byzantium is a long ways off."

"True," Ulstrup said. "Quite conceivably the Nerthus faith can become the seed and core of a Germanic civilization—not barbarism but a civilization, however turbulent—which has the inner richness to resist Christendom, as Zoroastrian Persia will. Already they are not mere woods-runners here, you know. They are aware of an outside world, they interact with it. When the Langobardi intervened in the dynastic quarrels of the Cherusci, it was to restore a king who had been overthrown because he was Roman-reared and sent by request from Rome. Not that the Langobardi are cat's-paws; it was a Machiavellian move. Trade with the South increases year by year. Roman or Gallo-Roman ships sometimes ply as far as Scandinavia. The archaeologists of our time will speak of a Roman Iron Age, followed by a Germanic Iron Age. Yes, they are learning, these barbarians. They are assimilating what they find useful. It does not follow that they must inevitably be assimilated themselves."

His voice dropped. "Of course, if they are not it will be a different future.
Our
twentieth century will never exist."

"That's what we're trying to head off," Everard said harshly.

A silence fell. Wind lulled, leaves rustled, sunlight skipped on the ruffled stream. The peacefulness made the landscape feel unreal.

"But we've got to learn how this deviation started, before we can do anything about it," Everard went on. "Did you find where Veleda hails from?"

"I am afraid not," Ulstrup confessed. "Poor communications, vast reaches of wilderness—and Edh does not talk about her past, nor does her associate Heidhin. He may feel a little more at ease with himself twenty-one years hence, when he mentions the Alvarings to you, whoever they are. Even then, I think, it would be dangerous to ask him for details. At present he and she are totally reticent.

"However, I did hear that she appeared first among the Rugii on the Baltic littoral, five or six years ago as nearly as I can determine from the vague accounts. They say she came in a ship, as befits the prophetess of a sea deity. That and her accent suggest to me a Scandinavian origin. I'm sorry I cannot do better for you."

"It'll serve," Everard replied. "You did okay, buddy. With patience and instruments, maybe occasional inquiries on the ground, we'll track down the place and moment of her landing."

"And then—" Floris's words trailed away. She gazed past the river and the forest beyond, northeasterly toward an unseen shore.

12
A.D. 43.

Right and left the strand reached, sand rising into dunes where stiff grass grew, until haze blurred sight. Kelp, shells, bones of fish and birds lay sparsely strewn on the darker stretch below the high-water line. A few gulls rode the wind. It whistled raw-cold. A taste of salt was on it, and smells from the deeps. Waves washed low onto the shore, hissed back down, came again a little higher up. Farther out they ran strong, hollowly booming, white-capped above steely gray, to a horizon that likewise lost itself in the sky. It pressed in on the world, did that sky, hueless as the sea. Tatters of cloud scudded murky beneath it. Rain walked in the west.

Inland, sedge swayed around pools whose algal green was the only lightness. Forest gloomed in the distance. A brook seeped through the marsh to the beach. Doubtless the dwellers used it to move whatever boats they owned. Their hamlet lay a mile from the coast, some wattle-and-daub cabins hunched below turf roofs. Smoke blew out of louvers, otherwise nothing stirred.

The ship brought abrupt vividness. She was a beauty, long and lean, clinker-built, stem- and sternposts curving high, mastless but swiftly driven by thirty oars. Though her red paint had weathered, the oak remained stout. To the chant of the helmsman, her crew brought her aground, leaped over the sides, and hauled her partway out.

Everard approached. They waited for him in restrained wariness. Nearing, they had seen that he stood alone. He drew close and put the butt of his spearshaft on the sand. "Hail," he greeted.

A grizzled, scarred fellow who must be the captain asked, "Are you from yon houses?" His dialect would have been hard to understand had Everard and Floris not received an imprint. (It was of a Danish tongue four centuries uptime, the closest available. Fortunately, early Nordic languages didn't change fast. However, the agents could not hope to pass for natives, either of the ship's home or of this region.)

"No, I am a wayfarer. I was bound for there, wanting shelter tonight, but spied you and thought I would hear your tale first. It should be better than aught that any homefast hinds can tell. I hight Maring."

Ordinarily the Patrolman would just have said, "Everard," which sounded like a name in some other patois. But he'd be using it uptime when he met Heidhin, whom he hoped to buttonhole this day. He couldn't afford recognition then—another shift in reality, with unguessable consequences. Floris had suggested this monicker, authentically southern German. She had also assisted him with a flowing blond wig and false beard, plus a Jimmy Durante nose that would keep attention off the rest of him. Given the fading of memory with years, that should serve.

A grin creased and crinkled the mariner's face. "And I am Vagnio Thuthevar's son, from Hariu thorp in the land of the Alvarings. Whence come you?"

"From afar." The Patrolman jerked a thumb at the settlement. "They're staying within their walls, hey? Afraid of you?"

Vagnio shrugged. "We could be reavers, for aught they know. This is nobody's port of call. It's merely the landfall we made—"

Everard already realized that. On timecycles aloft, he and Floris had observed the ship, once scanning revealed that she, among all they had checked, carried a woman. A jump into the future showed where she would halt; a jump back into the past deposited him close by. Floris stayed above the clouds. Explaining her presence away would have been too much trouble.

"—where we'll camp the night," Vagnio went on, "and fill our water casks in the morning. But then we coast west to the Anglii, with goods for a great market they hold this time of year. If yon folk like, they can call on us, else we'll leave them be. Their kind has naught worth robbing."

"Not even themselves, to sell for thralls?" The question was foul in Everard's mouth, but natural in this age.

"No, they'd run off as soon as they saw us bound for them, and scatter what livestock they have. That's why they built where they did." Vagnio squinted. "You must be a landlubber not to ken that."

"Yes, of the Marcomanni." The tribe was safely remote, about where western Czechoslovakia would lie. "You are, uh, from Scania?"

"No. The Alvarings hold half of an island off the Geatish coast. Stay the night with us, Mating, and we'll swap yarns—What're you peering at?"

Sailors had crowded around, eager to hear. They were mostly tall blonds, who blocked the Patrolman's view of their vessel. A couple of them had shifted, restless, and he got a clear look. A slender youth had just sprung out of the prow to the beach. He lifted his arms and helped the woman follow.
Veleda.

No mistaking her.
I'd know that face, those eyes, at the bottom of her goddess's ocean.
But how young she was today, a girl in her teens, withy-thin. The wind tossed loose brown tresses and flapped skirt around ankles. Across the ten or fifteen yards between, Everard thought he saw—what? A look that sought something beyond this place, lips that would suddenly quiver and maybe whisper, a grief, a lostness, a dream, he couldn't say.

Certainly she showed none of the interest in him he had counted on. He wondered if she had so much as cast him a glance. The pale countenance turned away. She spoke briefly with her dark-haired companion. They walked off together, down the strand from the ship.

"Ah, her," Vagnio deduced. Unease touched him. "An uncanny twain, those."

"Who are they?" Everard asked. That too was a natural question, when women crossing the sea other than as captives were well-nigh unheard of. Eventually invaders from the Frisian and Jutish shores would bring their families along to Britain, but that wouldn't happen for centuries.

Unless Scandinavian women occasionally took ship at this early date? His information didn't say. Those lands in those years were little studied. It hadn't seemed they would make much difference to the rest of the world until the
Völkerwanderung.
Surprise, surprise.

"Edh Hlavagast's daughter and Heidhin Viduhada's son," Vagnio said. Everard noticed that he named her first. "They bought aboard, but not to trade alongside us. Indeed, she'd not seek the market at all, but wants we let her—them—off somewhere else, she has not yet said where."

"Best we make ready for night, skipper," growled a man. A mutter of agreement went among others. Darkness was hours off, and it wasn't likely the rain would come this way.
They'd rather not have talk about her,
Everard realized.
They've nothing against her, I'm sure, but she is, yes, uncanny.
Vagnio was quick to assent.

Everard offered to lend a hand with setting up. Bluffly polite, for a guest was sacred, the captain expressed doubt that a landlubber could expedite matters. Everard strolled off, the way Edh and Heidhin had gone.

He saw them stop, well ahead of him. They appeared to argue. She made a gesture strangely imperious for such a slip of a lass. Heidhin wheeled about and started back with long stiff strides. Edh went onward.

"This may be my chance," Everard subvocalized. "I'll see if I can get the boy into conversation."

"Have a care," Floris replied. "I think he is upset."

"Yeah. I've got to try, though, don't I?"

It was the reason for making this rendezvous, instead of simply tracing the ship across the water, backward through time. They dared not charge blind into what might well be the source of the instability, the obscure and easily annulled event from which an entire future could spring. Here, they hoped, was an opportunity to learn something beforehand at minimal risk.

Heidhin jarred to a halt, glowering, before the foreigner. He also was in his teens, perhaps a year or two older than Edh. In this milieu that made him an adult, but he was still gangly, not quite filled out, the sharp countenance darkened by no more than fuzz. He wore wadmal, odorous in the damp air, and salt-stained boots. A sword hung at his flank.

"Hail," said Everard amiably. That was on the surface. Cold prickles went over his scalp.

"Hail," grunted Heidhin. The surliness would have been considered appropriate to his years in twentieth-century America. Here it meant real trouble. "What would you?" He paused before adding roughly, "Follow not the woman. She wants to be alone."

"Is that safe for her?" Everard asked: another natural question.

"She'll not go too far, and will return ere nightfall. Besides—" Again Heidhin fell mute. He seemed to be wrestling with himself. Everard guessed that a youthful desire to be important and mysterious won out over discretion. Yet he heard an almost frightening sincerity: "Whoso offends her shall suffer worse than death. She is the chosen of a goddess."

Did the wind really blow keener all at once? "You know her well, then?"

"I . . . fare at her side."

"Whither?"

"Why would you know?" flared Heidhin. "Let me be!"

"Easy, friend, easy," Everard said. It helped being large and mature. "I do but ask, I, an outlander. Gladly would I hear more about—Edh, did the shipmaster call her? And you Heidhin, I think."