Then he cried out as the timbers beneath him tilted without warning. The raft lifted and twisted and he felt himself falling backwards. He grasped for the mast and managed to get a hold, but lost it when Bos involuntarily cannoned into him and knocked him away. Sliding again, he hit the gunnel and made an unsuccessful grab at that. He sank into stingingly cold water and felt his nostrils fill as he went deep down.
He had no coherent thoughts, but his arms moved of their own volition, beating a way back to the surface. He broke water and gasped in breath. With a shock of despair, he saw empty sea before him: no whales, but no raft either.
The call came from behind, and he turned, treading water. The raft was about thirty yards away but it seemed a lot further; beyond it, one of the retreating whales blew a spume of spray into the moonlight. The cold bit deeper as he swam towards the raft, and his arms felt more leaden with each stroke. He had an impulse to ease up, let go—wasn’t drowning supposed to be an easy death? But he heard their voices urging him on, Bos bellowing above the rest, and managed to keep going. His senses were hazing when his fingers touched wood and he felt them hauling him on board; his teeth chattered and he was shivering violently. Bos and Brad joined arms around him, holding his cold wet body between theirs.
They held him in that fashion till daybreak. This time there was a sunrise, but he could take no interest in the golden disk slowly lifting from the horizon. He felt it had no heat in it; despite the warmth of other bodies, chillness held him in a vice. He heard the others talking, but their words were meaningless. Bos tried to make him eat, but it was too much effort. The climbing sun was turning the sea’s grey to green, but he felt indifferent to it, to everything except the paralyzing cold.
Even when Bos shouted “Land!” it meant nothing. They left him to scramble for the paddles and he had the vague thought that he ought to lend a hand, but all his energy was taken up in shivering. He drifted along the edge of consciousness. After a long time he was aware that Brad and Bos were holding him again, and that the raft still floated. So there was no landfall after all. It didn’t matter: nothing mattered.
• • •
He fell eventually into a deep sleep. Awaking he felt a bit better and even managed to sit up. The sun was at its zenith; and while he was far from warm, the cold was not quite so bitter. He felt thirsty and asked for water. He learned something unpleasant then. The amphora which was the main freshwater container had gone overboard when he did. Only the contents of the flask were left—a few mouthfuls each.
He asked about the land Bos had sighted. They told him it had been in view upwards of an hour, but though they had fancied at first they were making progress towards it, the current had carried them on past. He said: “I ought to have helped.”
Bos shrugged. “It would have made no difference. A kitten would have pulled as strongly. Eat, Simonus, so you can help next time.”
While he chewed on a piece of meat, Brad spoke to him in English: “I was right about the current. What I got wrong was our original position. I figured we were somewhere on the Maine coast, but I realize now we must have been much further north—Nova Scotia, probably. The current did take us south-west, but across open sea. The land we saw was probably Cape Cod. And if we’re on the same drift, there’s a chance of making Nantucket. We’ve three or four hours of daylight, and that should be enough to give us a sighting.”
Simon started to reply, but was prevented by a cry from Curtius.
“Look over there! Is that land?”
There was something, certainly, that was neither sea nor sky. Sunlight glinted from a long level whiteness. They were drifting slowly towards it.
It was Bos who spoke: “No, not land. Sea mist.”
As they got nearer, its appearance became less uniform; there were rifts and eddyings. Tendrils of mist began to curl up out of the sea. The sun dimmed, brightened slightly, dimmed further. It was a disk of pale yellow, of white and barely visible against the white all round; then it was gone. The mist hemmed them in completely, a filthy grey now and sharply chilling.
They could see no more than a few yards from the raft’s edge. Even if Brad’s guess had been right, they could pass within fifty yards—fifty feet—of land and never know it. The mist had robbed them of the few remaining hours of daylight. After that there would be night again, and open sea.
No one felt like talking; even Bos, who had previously been a source of encouragement, fell silent. The only sound was the slap of water against the raft’s timbers. Somewhere overhead the sun was moving relentlessly down to its setting. Time passed. How long had it been, Simon wondered—one hour, two? Three, even? Was the mist beginning to darken? He had a feeling it was.
The apparition that unexpectedly loomed over them was frightening in quite a different way from the whales. The size of the creatures against the smallness of the raft had been the main factor then. This was something of a different order: a shock of realizing that fairy stories, nightmares, could come true. The incredible head of the sea serpent gaped down at them, with gleaming teeth. Simon’s own cry of fear was lost in those of the rest. And there were other sounds—shouts coming out of the mist. Wood splintered, and he had time to see a broken oar flail through the air towards his head before the raft jerked and lifted, and once again he found himself tossed into the sea.
• • •
Simon was first to be picked up, but the rest quickly followed. Brad and Curtius had managed to cling to the raft’s mast, while Bos had grabbed the broken oar of the dragon ship as a spar. Once they had been hauled on board they could get a good look at their rescuers. They were big and blond and hairy, with drooping moustaches and curly beards. But physical appearance apart, the horned helmets identified them, as, of course, the ship itself had done once Simon realized it wasn’t a sea monster. They were Vikings.
That left a lot of questions unanswered. To begin with, what was a longship doing three thousand miles from the area in which one would expect to find it? And how did it happen that the language being spoken by the Vikings was not some Scandinavian tongue, but a corrupt form of the Latin spoken in Europe on this side of the fireball?
The most important thing, though, was that despite their barbarous looks, and the stone axes hung in a long row inside the gunnels, they seemed amiable. A horn was offered round, and proved to contain a sweet, warming ale. Another Viking produced from a chest tunics of soft skin to replace their wet clothing. And although their version of Latin was not too easy to follow, there was no doubt they were expressing pleasure at having been able to snatch the four of them from the sea’s clutches.
Simon said to Brad: “I don’t get it. Do you have any idea where they come from?”
“Wherever it is, not too far away. I heard one of them say that but for the mist they wouldn’t have found us—they’d have been back in home harbour two hours ago.”
“Home harbour? On this side of the Atlantic?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out. Of course, there was speculation in our world that the Vikings could have crossed the Atlantic. There was the theory that some of them reached what they called Vinland, which was probably not far from where we landed. And what may have been Viking artifacts were discovered in the Great Lakes area. So there’s no reason why they shouldn’t have crossed the ocean on this side of the fireball, too. On the other hand . . .” He was looking puzzled.
Simon said: “On the other hand, what?”
“Our Viking Age began about 800 A.D.—that’s more than four hundred years after the emperor Julian. And it’s generally accepted that what permitted them to swarm across Europe was the weakness, in fact the disintegration of the Frankish empire. But the Frankish empire only came into being after the Roman empire collapsed . . . and in this world it didn’t collapse. So where do these Vikings come from?”
“I don’t see the problem. Even in this world, the Romans didn’t occupy the whole of Europe. Bos was born free as a barbarian in north Britain. In fact, m
ost of Scandinavia isn’t under Roman rule, so why couldn’t they simply have crossed from there?”
“Ye-es. There’s just one little thing that bothers me about that.”
“Go on.”
“If their original home was outside the empire, why are they speaking Latin, rather than Norse?”
Simon thought about it. “So what is the answer?”
“I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out eventually. The good news is that we can talk to them. And that these natives definitely are friendly.”
• • •
While the longship wallowed idly, the Vikings chatted and passed round the horn of ale, replenishing it from time to time from a wooden barrel. They didn’t seem concerned about being immobilized by the mist; the sea was flat calm and longships were provisioned for long periods at sea. Food was provided: dried meat, salt fish, and a kind of biscuit. Once he had warmed up, Simon realized how hungry he was and ate ravenously.
He found the guttural, distorted Latin more comprehensible as he got used to it. Their rescuers clearly knew of the lands on the far side of the ocean and assumed they were castaways from a ship which had gone astray. But they showed no real curiosity about them. They were more interested when Bos spoke of the pack of whales. It seemed that whale hunting had been the object of their expedition, but they had found none.
Gradually the mist thinned and the sun’s faint disk appeared close to the horizon. Talk was abandoned for the oars, and the longship headed southwest to the pull of hairy arms. They sang as they rowed, in a rhythmic chant matching the beat of the blades. Only two were absent from the benches: a wiry scar-faced man at the tiller and a big man with a gold chain round his neck, who was plainly the captain. He stood on a wooden platform just behind the dragon’s neck, fixing his gaze on the waters ahead.
The sun was below the horizon and the day fast darkening when he aroused cheers with the cry of “Land in sight!” The mist had completely cleared, and despite the dusk a low line of coast was plainly visible on the port bow. Their progress was fast, and it was not long before they were rounding a headland, the point of a long peninsula. Course was altered southerly; they approached another spur of land, enclosing a broad harbour.
Brad said: “I was right.”
“About what?” Simon asked.
“The harbour’s unmistakable. Yankees went whaling from here, too. That’s Nantucket island.”
“Home,” the Viking captain said, smiling broadly. “Warm hearths, warm hearts, good food, and good cheer! Welcome, friends.”
• • •
The town, or more correctly village, stood directly over the harbour, looking down to the quay where the longships were moored to tall posts topped with ornamental heads that matched the ships’ figureheads. There were two or three hundred wooden huts, set higgledy-piggledy around a larger longer building. There was no road as such, but paths twisted in and out of the huts. Many generations of feet had worn them down below the original level, and each hut stood on a small knoll of earth. Whatever the reason for the Vikings’ coming here, it had happened a long time ago. Simon looked at the huts as they trooped past them. They had been solidly built in the first place, but many seemed in need of repair. A gaping crack in one had been plugged with hides.
Women and children thronged out to welcome their menfolk back. They, too, were blonde, the women large-boned with braids of yellow hair that framed plump pink cheeks. They favoured the strangers with curious looks. And a buxom lady who, judging from the way she embraced him, was the captain’s wife, asked where they came from.
He roared laughter. “From the sea—a gift from Odin. But in truth, wife, they come from beyond the great water, as our forefathers did. They are Romans! Romans will grace the winter feast this year. Is that not good news?”
She answered his laugh with one equally hearty. The other women crowded close, staring at the Romans, even fingering them. One patted Brad’s cheek and another twined fingers in Bos’s beard. Simon came in for some prodding which he did not care for; he reflected, though, that it was better than the attentions they would have been likely to receive at the hands of the Iroquois squaws. Then he saw something which took his mind off the Iroquois.
She stood back from the rest. She was about fourteen but as tall as he was. Her hair was a brighter, more buttery gold than that of the others, her eyes a purer cornflower blue. And there was a charming earnestness about her gaze. Simon returned the look and thought she coloured slightly. Then she turned and went, disappearing behind one of the huts.
Following her with his eyes, Simon noticed something: Brad was doing the same.
• • •
They feasted that night in the large building, which was both a general meeting place and the assembly point for their tribal council, the thing. A stone hearth at the centre supported a big log fire; the men sat at tables on either side and the women brought round food and drink.
The drink, which they were told was made from honey, tasted like a dryish wine. A variety of food was ladled onto the wooden platters: different kinds of preserved fish, spicy sausages, baked fish, and chunks of roast meat which proved to be whale. Pickled vegetables and corn bread were served with them.
With his belly pleasantly full, Simon paid more attention to his surroundings. The hall was very old: the table had been worn into hollows by generations of elbows. High on the walls were hung overlapping rows of round shields—hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. The lighting was from smoky lamps which gave off a pungent smell; whale oil, he supposed. In their glow he could see dozens of whalebone and seal tusks, intricately carved.
He was looking for the girl but did not see her. Most of the women were quite old; he guessed they were wives of the warriors and that unmarried girls were not allowed at the feasts. It was a pity, but there would be time to see her again. Perhaps quite a lot of time. The thought of staying here permanently crossed his mind, followed by the thought that he could think of many worse things. Staying, of course, would depend on being invited, but the remarks of the captain—who had proved to be the Viking chief, Wulfgar—about a gift from Odin sounded promising.
They had been given seats of honour close by the chief, and Bos now addressed him, thanking him and complimenting him on the quality of his hospitality. He said: “It is not just for food and drink that we owe you thanks, though it is a long time since I dined so well.” He patted his belly, belching appreciatively. “Death would have found us, had you not found us first.”
“The finding was our good fortune,” Wulfgar said. He wagged a greasy fist clutching a chunk of meat. “I have been favoured by the gods before, but never so greatly.”
That seemed excessive, Simon thought, but it was probably just a fashion of talking. He decided to follow the custom of the country and weigh in with a little hyperbole himself. He felt quite proud of his eloquence, as he emptied his pot and had it immediately refilled by one of the Viking women. He waved it in the air, spilling a few drops on Brad beside him.
“For all these things,” he concluded grandly, “we are most deeply in your debt, and not least for being honoured as guests at your winter feast.”
He had a feeling that a lot of what he had said had been less than perfectly intelligible—their versions of Latin were still considerably at cross purposes—but Wulfgar at least picked up his last words.
“Our winter feast?” The chief’s face broadened in another laugh. “But this is not our winter feast, Roman! It wants another month till Yule. Then we have real eating and drinking, in celebration of the turn of the year.”
Bos turned his eyes up. “I could not fill my belly fuller than I have tonight.”
“The turn of the year,” Wulfgar repeated, “and thanks to your coming, the turn in our fortunes.”
His wife was at his elbow, and refilled his pot, too. Wulfgar drank deeply, then upended it, emptying the lees into the rushes that covered the floor of the hall. The gesture was harsh and brutal, for a moment almo
st menacing. But he laughed again, and his warriors laughed with him.
“To Odin,” he cried, “the bringer of gifts!”
3
BRAD HAD VISITED THE ISLAND before, on the other side of the fireball; when he and Simon set off next morning on a trip of exploration, he marvelled at the emptiness of the beaches.
“That one was jammed with tourists—hot dog vendors, ice cream vans, the works. And the bay dotted with small boats. Big ones, too—forty and fifty footers.”
Earlier both sea and island had been mist-covered, but the rising sun had burnt it away. There was haze at the horizon, but close at hand everything was clear and sharp and brightly glinting.
Simon felt cheerful. He said: “Red Hawk’s turning nasty seems to have been all for the best, doesn’t it? We’d have had the winter to get through and after that a transcontinental trek, with no guarantees of the kind of reception we might get on the way.”
Brad looked at him sharply. “You thinking of staying on here?”
“It’s crossed my mind.” Brad said nothing. “The climate in California may be better, but we’ve no idea what other conditions are like. At least here we’re among civilized people—well, fairly civilized. And we can speak the language. It may have been okay for you, but I was never going to get by in Algonquian.”
They were walking along a ridge with views both inland and over the bay. The landscape was bare, mostly scrub. Brad said: “We don’t know we can stay.”
“I reckon we’ll be welcome, as long as we do our bit.”
“Lend a hand with the whaling?”
“That, and whatever else is needed.”
Brad kicked a stone and watched it roll down the slope towards the beach.
“I’ve been trying to work out their economy,” he said. “There’s all this wood they use—for houses, boats, and so on—and yet the island’s badly off for trees—always has been. And the wood they’ve used is mostly pine, which I doubt would thrive here. Then there was the food last night. The fish figures, and I guess they can grow vegetables; but I’d be surprised if they could grow enough corn to see them through the winter, and there was no shortage of bread. I saw beehives in a field on the other side of the village—that explains the honey for the mead, and as a sweetener generally. But what about clothing? They dress in skins—but where do they get the skins? Seal, sure, and there’s probably local jackrabbit, but I saw others. There was beaver, and I’ll swear this isn’t beaver country. And those big rugs in the hall were bearskin.”