G. Edmondson: The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

Joe felt protective instincts starting to tingle all through him.

He remembered with something of a shock that this fragile creature had just skewered the steersman and only incidentally saved his life. “I understand something of the pagan tongue,” she said.

“Who’s the—” He couldn’t think of the word for first mate. “El numero dos,” he finished lamely.

She pointed at a sandy-haired giant with a beard and mustache nearly as ferocious as the dead captain’s. Joe beckoned with a peremptory thumb. The giant stared at him. “Tell him,” Joe instructed, “to come here or I’ll call down lightning.”

She spoke in fluting gurgles until the giant came running. “Where to, where from, and what cargo?” Joe asked. She interpreted again and the giant mumbled an answer. They were out of Orkney, bound for Iceland, and with a mixed cargo.

“How far out?”

“Two days.”

“What’re the women and children doing aboard?”

The girl spat. “They couldn’t stick Olaf’s new law.”

Joe’s ears pricked up. “Olaf Tryggvasson?”

The girl nodded.

The Norwegian king had forced even the distant Icelanders to turn Christian in the year 1000. This must be 990 something or other. “You know the date?” he asked.

“I was taken in the 12th year of Almanzor.”

History was full of Arab kings named Mansour; Joe wondered which one she meant. “How many years since the birth of Christ?” he asked.

“How should I know?” the girl shrugged.

The first mate still waited. “Tell him to start getting some provisions on deck.”

The Northman’s answer was brief.

“He says trading ships are immune to plunder by Viking law. Since you choose to disregard the rules of civilized warfare you can kill him now and load your own gurgle loot.”

Joe decided not to ask what the untranslated gurgle meant. “If he’d respected my life,” he said, “I would have respected his cargo. As it is, I’ll leave him provisions to reach port. If he holds his mouth right I may leave him enough teeth to eat them.”

A look of disappointment crossed the girl’s face.

“But,” Joe added hastily, “any funny business and I’ll turn you and that knife loose.” He hoped the girl would interpret properly. Chances were she’d garble it just for the hell of it. But apparently she didn’t The tall man turned and bellowed orders.

In a moment the midships planking was up and men passed coarse woolen sacks of rye over the Alice’s rail.

Joe would, he imagined, soon be sick of rye bread but they could live a long time on it, providing he located fresh vegetables. “Do you bake aboard ship?” he asked the girl. She waggled her finger in a Latin “no” and Joe suddenly remembered how the Norse used to bake hardtack all winter—chewy as a phonograph record and just about as tasty.

The Alice didn’t have so much as a coffee grinder aboard. How, Joe wondered, would they make flour?

As a small mountain of rye piled up on the yawl’s deck he calculated that they couldn’t possibly use more than fifteen pounds a day. That meant a hundred and thirty-three days to the ton. There must already be four tons aboard the yawl. “Enough,” he shouted. He pointed a finger at the first mate. “Stay there or I’ll turn you into a pumpkin,” he threatened, and began exploring the knarr.

There were twenty scrawny, athletic sheep in a pen up forward. Joe took eight. Below he found bolts of heavy woolen cloth. It would bag and shrink horribly but the knarr’s sails seemed to be made of it. Joe shuddered to think what some really heavy weather would do to the Alice’s ancient canvas. He took half the cloth.

He checked the knarr’s water butts and decided no.

Green streamers were visible through the bungholes and they were only two days out!

He found his real treasure in the knarr’s dinghy: a small pair of millstones tied together made up the small boat’s anchor. He was ready to leave when another necessity caught his eye. He took half the firewood too.

“You know,” he said apologetically as they left the knarr, “we probably won’t be heading for Spain.” He’d been about to ask the girl if she wouldn’t rather stay with the Norse when he realized what would happen to her the moment he left “But you’re welcome aboard,” he added.

“You’re Christian?”

“Most of us, I guess.”

“I have a few things.” The girl gave instructions in Norse. The first mate shouted all hands in line and the girl went down the line, pausing before each woman like a boot ensign on his first inspection. While the Alice’s men watched awedly, women began undressing.

The man gathered their clothes and passed the bundle on board the Alice. The girl paused again before the naked, shivering women. Pausing before one, she drew the knife. Slowly, and with great deliberation, she incised a bloody cross into the older woman’s forehead.

The woman glared unblinking while another cross was etched in each cheek.

Joe stared fascinated, wanting to stop this ritual but unable to make himself move. After all, the girl had saved his life. It’s a barbarous era, he reflected—and what must that old woman have been doing to the girl for the last two years?

Tenderly, and with loving care, the dark hared girl inscribed another X on her former owner’s belly. The older woman stood erect, her hawk face expressionless.

The girl stood back to admire her work and with a lightning movement, planted a kick in the middle of the X. The Norse woman doubled up in silence.

They left the naked Norse women feeling some joy at finding themselves still unraped. Joe tacked for an hour so the knarr, which couldn’t sail upwind for sour apples, would not be tempted to try any deviltry under cover of darkness. There was still light to read by. They slacked sheets and the yawl settled down on a SW course.

And now, what was he going to do with the girl? In storybook situations the fair damsel was always installed in the captain’s quarters and the skipper played musical chairs with his officers. But the Alice was already crowded; she had bunks for the captain and eight men.

The two civilians slept in the galley table settees. Plotting board, charts, and other indispensables, all were located in Joe’s small cubicle. After some thought he curtained off a corner of the forecastle and hoped ten men watching each other would prevent nature from taking its course.

As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, now Cookie was plucking his sleeve. “Cain’t burn wood,” he was saying, “That stove’s made for diesel oil.”

The engineman stuck his head up through the cabin sole and wriggled out of the engine compartment.

“Can you make this stove burn wood?” Joe asked.

Rose mouthed his cigar stub thoughtfully. “I’ll try.”

“If you can’t, put a tub on deck with a few fathoms of chain in it. Whatever you do, keep it alee and don’t set the sails afire.”

The engineman removed a stovelid and surveyed the oil burner’s sooty innards.

The girl was dogging Joe, bumping into him each time he turned around. Her name was Raquel. He wondered if she was typical Tenth Century or if her gamy odor came from cramped shipboard conditions.

“Villegas!” he called.

Seaman Villegas rolled out of his bunk and staggered blearily aft.

“Can you understand this savage?”

Villegas eyed her. “If the dame’s from Spain we’ll make out,” he said.

“Rig a shelter on deck. Get her a bucket and some soap. She’s probably never seen it before, so—”

“Always happy to oblige,” Villegas said.

“You don’t have to scrub her back,” Joe said firmly.

“Just explain what soap is.” He retreated into his cabin before anybody else could buttonhole him.