Poul Anderson: Star of the Sea

During the night a great storm roared up. Trees groaned and tossed. Branches torn loose hurtled on the wind. Rain flew like spears. Gutherius groped blind in search of shelter. He bumped into a trunk which he felt was hollow. There he huddled through the night.

Morning broke calm and sunny. Raindrops glittered many-hued on twigs and moss. Wings passed overhead. As Gutherius stretched his stiffened body, a dog stepped out of a brake and approached him. It was no mongrel but a tall gray hunting hound. Joy wakened in the man. “Whose are you?” he asked. “Lead me to your master.”

The dog turned and trotted off. Gutherius followed. Presently they came on a game trail and took it. Yet he spied never a sign of humanity. The knowledge grew in him. “You are the hound of Nehalennia,” he dared say. “She has bidden you lead me home, or at least to a berry bush or a hazel where I can still my hunger. I thank the goddess.”

The dog answered naught, merely padded on. Nothing such as the man hoped for came in sight. Instead, after a while the woods opened. He heard the sea and smelled the salt wind off it. The dog sprang to one side and vanished among the shadows. Gutherius must needs trudge on ahead. Worn though he was, happiness burned in him, for he knew that if he followed the shoreline south, he would reach a fisher village where he had kinfolk.

At the strand he stopped, amazed. A ship lay in the shadows, driven aground by the storm, dismasted and unseaworthy though not wholly wrecked. The crew had survived. They sat about in despair, being foreigners who kenned nothing of this coast.

Gutherius went to them and discovered their plight. By signs he told them he could be their guide. They fed him and left some men on guard while others took rations and accompanied him.

In this wise did Gutherius gain the reward he had been promised: for the ship bore a rich cargo and the procurator ruled that he who saved the crew was entitled to a fair share. Gutherius thought the old woman must have been Nehalennia herself.

Because she is goddess of ships and trade, he invested his gains in a vessel that plied the Britain run. Ever did she enjoy fair weather and a following wind, while the wares she bore commanded high prices. Gutherius became a wealthy man.

Mindful of thanks he owed, he raised an altar to Nehalennia, where after each voyage he made generous offering; and whenever he saw the evening star or the morning star shine forth, he bowed low, for they too are Nehalennia’s.

Hers are the trees, the vine, and the fruits thereof. Hers are the sea and the ships that plow it. Hers are the well-being of mortals and peace among them.

“I just got your letter,” Floris had said on the phone. “Oh, yes, Manse, do come as soon as you can.” Everard hadn’t wasted time aboard a jet. He stuck his passport in a pocket and hopped directly from the Patrol’s New York office to the one in Amsterdam. There he drew some Dutch money and got a cab to her place.

When he entered the apartment and they embraced, her kiss was tender rather than passionate and soon ended. He was unsure whether that surprised him or not, disappointed or relieved. “Welcome, welcome,” she breathed in his ear. “It has been too long.” Yet the litheness pressed lightly against him and moved quickly back. His pulse began to slow.

“You’re looking great as always,” he said. True. A brief black gown hugged the tall figure and set off the amber braids. Her sole jewelry was a silver thunderbird pin above her left breast. In his honor?

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.”