Connie Willis: Dooms Day Book

“Did you see the Pyramids?” Dunworthy said.

“What?” Mary said.

“When you were in Egypt. When you went tearing about the Middle East oblivious to danger. Did you get to see the Pyramids?”

“No. Cairo was put under quarantine the day we landed.” She looked at Kivrin, lying there on the floor. “But we saw the Valley of the Kings.”

Badri moved Kivrin’s arm a fraction of an inch, stood frowning at her for a moment, and then went back to the console. Gilchrist and Latimer followed him. Montoya stepped back to make room for all of them around the screen. Badri spoke into the console’s ear, and the semi-transparent shields began to lower into place, covering Kivrin like a veil.

“We were glad we went,” Mary said. “We came home without a scratch.”

The shields touched the ground, draped a little like Kivrin’s too-long skirts, stopped.

“Be careful,” Dunworthy whispered. Mary took hold of his hand.

Latimer and Gilchrist huddled in front of the screen, watching the sudden explosion of numbers. Montoya glanced at her digital. Badri leaned forward and opened the net. The air inside the shields glittered with sudden condensation.

“Don’t go,” Dunworthy said.

First entry. 23 December, 2054. Oxford. This will be a record of my historical observations of life in Oxfordshire, England, 12 December, 1320, to 28 December, 1320 (Old Style).

(Break)

Mr. Dunworthy, I’m calling this the Doomsday Book because it’s supposed to be a record of life in the Middle Ages, which is what William the Conqueror’s survey turned out to be, even though he intended it as a method of making sure he got every pound of gold and tax his tenants owed him.

I am also calling it the Doomsday Book because I would imagine that’s what you’d like to call it, you are so convinced something awful’s going to happen to me. I’m watching you in the observation area right now, telling poor Dr. Ahrens all the dreadful dangers of the 1300’s. You needn’t bother. She’s already warned me about time lag and every single mediaeval disease, in gruesome detail, even though I’m supposed to be immune to all of them. And warned me about the prevalence of rape in the 1300’s. And when I tell her I’ll be perfectly all right she doesn’t listen to me either. I will be perfectly all right, Mr. Dunworthy.

Of course you will already know that, and that I made it back in one piece and all according to schedule, by the time you get to hear this, so you won’t mind my teasing you a little. I know you are only concerned for me, and I know very well that without all your help and preparation I wouldn’t make it back in one piece or at all.

I am therefore dedicating The Doomsday Book to you, Mr. Dunworthy. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be standing here in kirtle and cloak, talking into this corder, waiting for Badri and Mr. Gilchrist to finish their endless calculations and wishing they would hurry so I can go .

(Break)

I’m here.

“Well,” Mary said on a long, drawn-out breath. “I could do with a drink.”

“I thought you had to go fetch your great-nephew,” Dunworthy said, still watching the place where Kivrin had been. The air glittered with ice particles inside the veil of shields. Near the floor, frost had formed on the inside of the thin-glass.

The unholy three of Mediaeval were still watching the screens, even though they showed nothing but the flat line of arrival. “I needn’t fetch Colin until three,” Mary said. “You look as though you could use a bit of bracing up yourself, and the Lamb and Cross is just down the street.”

“I want to wait until he has the fix,” Dunworthy said, watching the tech.

There were still no data on the screens. Badri was frowning. Montoya looked at her digital and said something to Gilchrist. Gilchrist nodded, and she scooped up a bag that had been lying half under the console, waved goodbye to Latimer, and went out through the side door.

“Unlike Montoya, who obviously cannot wait to return to her dig, I would like to stay until I’m sure Kivrin got through without incident,” Dunworthy said.

“I’m not suggesting you go back to Balliol,” Mary said, wrestling her way into her coat, “but the fix will take at least an hour, if not two, and in the meantime, your standing here won’t hurry it along. Watched pot and all that. The pub’s just across the way. It’s very small and quite nice, the sort of place that doesn’t put up Christmas decorations or play artificial bell music.” She held his overcoat out to him. “We’ll have a drink and something to eat, and then you can come back here and pace holes in the floor until the fix comes in.”

“I want to wait here,” he said, still looking at the empty net. “Why didn’t Basingame have a locator implanted in his wrist? The head of a History Faculty has no business going off on holiday and not even a number where he can be reached.”

Gilchrist straightened himself up from the still unchanging screen and clapped Badri on the shoulders. Latimer blinked as if he wasn’t sure where he was. Gilchrist shook his hand, smiling expansively. He started across the floor toward the wall panel partition, looking smug.

“Let’s go,” Dunworthy said, snatching his overcoat from her and opening the door. A blast of “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night” hit them. Mary darted through the door as though she were escaping, and Dunworthy pulled it to behind them and followed Mary through the quad and out through Brasenose’s gate.

It was bitter cold, but it wasn’t raining. It looked as though it might at any moment, though, and the crush of shoppers on the pavement in front of Brasenose had apparently decided it would. At least half of them had umbrellas already opened. A woman with a large red one and both arms full of parcels bumped into Dunworthy. “Watch where you’re going, can’t you?” she said, and hurried on.

“The Christmas spirit,” Mary said, buttoning her coat with one hand and hanging onto her shopping bag with the other. “The pub’s just down there past the chemist’s,” she said, nodding her head at the opposite side of the street. “It’s these ghastly bells, I think. They’d ruin anyone’s mood.”

She started off down the pavement through the maze of umbrellas. Dunworthy debated putting his coat on and then decided it wasn’t worth the struggle for so short a distance. He plunged after her, trying to keep clear of the deadly umbrellas and to determine what carol was being slaughtered now. It sounded like a cross between a call to arms and a dirge, but it was probably “Jingle Bells.”

Mary was standing at the curb opposite the chemist’s, digging in her shopping bag again. “What is that ghastly din supposed to be?” she said, coming up with a collapsible umbrella. “O Little Town of Bethlehem?”

“Jingle Bells,” Dunworthy said and stepped out into the street.

“James!” Mary said and grabbed hold of his sleeve.

The bicycle’s front tire missed him by centimeters, and the near pedal caught him on the leg. The rider swerved, shouting, “Don’t you know how to cross a bleeding street?”

Dunworthy stepped backward and crashed into a six-year-old holding a plush Santa. The child’s mother glared.

“Do be careful, James,” Mary said.

They crossed the street, Mary leading the way. Halfway across it began to rain. Mary ducked under the chemist’s overhang and tried to get her umbrella open. The chemist’s window was draped in green and gold tinsel and had a sign posted in among the perfumes that said, “Save the Marston Parish Church Bells. Give to the Restoration Fund.”