The river grew increasingly interesting as the afternoon wore on, and I was glad that we had our experienced men at the helm, fighting our way past rocks and rapids.
I crawled under my still-damp sleeping bag and watched the scenery, which was pretty spectacular. The River Dunajec cuts through the Pieniny Mountains, and it was one gorgeous vista after another, with white marble cliffs thrusting up through the pine forest and sudden meadows with sheep grazing.
A castle clung high up on the slopes of a three-peaked mountain. I fumbled for my binoculars.
"That's Pieniny Castle," the boatman shouted. Pieniny Castle! I had toured its ruins once. Now, "dunce caps" topped the towers and the drawbridge was intact. It was here—will be here?—that King Boleslaw the Bashful took refuge after he lost the Battle of Chmielnik to Batu Khan, and Poland was left open to the Mongol invaders. That was—will be—in the spring of 1241, nine and a half years from now.
"What is that thing you're holding in front of your face?" Tadaos asked.
"Binoculars. They make things look close. Here, take a look."
"Later, Sir Conrad. I've got my hands full."
And he did, steering that overladen boat through rapids and eddies. I was dreading my turn at those oars.
It was dusk when he finally said, "That's the worst of it. It'll be clear sailing until tomorrow afternoon. Good Father, give your oar to the poet. Sir Conrad, come take mine. Just keep her toward the middle and you'll have no problems."
It was dark half an hour later when we slid quietly past the castle town of Sacz. It was lightless, and we saw no people.
I was back into my heavy clothes, dried now to mere dampness, but the kid at the bow was still shivering. He had been silent since his dunking, and I felt sorry for him. I supposed that I was just prejudiced. I had never met a goliard poet before, but I knew the type. He was exactly the same as the Lost Generation and the hoboes and the beatniks and the hippies and—what was the current group?—punkers, I think. Every decade or so, they all adopt a stranger slang, put on a different uniform, and say that I am a conformist and that they are doing something wondrous and new!
Groups who change their names every ten years do it for a good reason. People have discovered that they are bums, and they need new camouflage. Now, I'm Slavic and proud of it. "Slav" comes from an old root meaning "glorious," but during the first millennium, Western Europeans enslaved so many of us that the word "slav" came to mean "slave" in their languages, which is about as derogatory as you can get. A people without a strong sense of self-worth, like the American Blacks, would have repeatedly changed their own name trying to erase the smudge, but of course we didn't. Try to get a Jew to call himself something different. Same thing.
Still, it probably wasn't the kid's fault that he was worthless. So when we were relieved to eat our supper—oatmeal and beer, but a lot of it—I sat down next to him.
"Look, kid, I'm sorry about throwing you into the river. It's just that there are times when you should not argue."
"That's okay, Sir Conrad. One gets used to insults following the muse."
"Yes . . . well. Look, are those the only clothes you have?"
"You see upon me all of my worldly possessions." He wore cheap red trousers and a thin yellow jacket with decorative buttons and worn-through elbows. He had a raggedy shirt that once might have been white. He had the tops of boots—the soles were almost completely gone—and a cap with a bent swan feather. He was as short as my other companions, but while they were thick, solid men, he was as skinny as a schoolgirl. He would have been an amusing sight if he had not been freezing to death.
"Well, maybe I can loan you something." I dug out my spare underwear and socks. Shirt and trousers. Tennis shoes and poncho.
"You'll probably swim in these, but they'll help keep you warm."
"I thank you, Sir Conrad. But don't talk of swimming, as I have done enough of that this year."
My clothes were a dozen sizes too big for him. He was awestruck by the elastic and zippers, and the buttonholes confused him.
I was boggled. His jackets had buttons all over, but he had never seen a buttonhole. How could you have buttons with no buttonholes? Was I really in the thirteenth century, or was I living a wacky dream?
My tennis shoes fit him perfectly. Did everybody back here have big feet?
When I had him dressed, he didn't look like a clown anymore. He looked like a war orphan.
We went back to our oars, and Tadaos said quietly to me, "Sir Conrad, you are too good for this world."
"Oh, he's just a kid."
"A kid who will rob you, given the chance."
"We'll see. How long is my watch?"
"Six hours; four hours to go. You have a full moon and a quiet river, so nothing much should happen; wake me if it does. Otherwise, wake me when the moon is high."
Food and warmth had cheered the kid up, and soon he launched into a monologue about himself and life. His name was Roman Makowski. He was fairly well educated for the times and had attended the University of Paris.
It seems that a student had been knifed and killed in a Paris alleyway and that the town council wouldn't do anything about it. The students, blaming the merchants, had rioted in protest and had apparently concentrated their attention on the wineshops and taverns. The town militia was called out, and the drinking and fighting spread. In the end, the king's guard had to enforce the peace. Two hundred students, including Roman, were jailed, and the university was shut down for a year.
Roman's father, who had been scrimping hard to pay for his son's education, was not amused. He paid Roman's way out of jail and then disinherited and threw him out of the house.
Roman was madly in love with three different girls without ever having touched one. He was wandering the world in search of Truth, and he hurt inside like a bag of broken glass. In short, he was a typical adolescent.
Eventually, the boatman told him to shut up.
Tadaos kept his bow and arrows in a rack near the stern oar. The bow was a huge thing, taller than the boatman and as big around as a golf ball. It took me a while to figure out what was odd about it.
Tadaos was right-handed, and the arrow rest was on the right side rather than the normal left. The arrows were well made and over a meter long. I was more than a head taller than he was, and I could only pull an 82-centimeter arrow.
The next morning I saw him use the bow while I was on watch again, waiting for dinner. Two meals a day seemed to be standard for the thirteenth century, and I was used to eating a heavy breakfast. The boatman had a fishing line over the side, and I hoped we weren't waiting for that.
"Quiet," Tadaos said in a stage whisper. He crept back to his bow while slipping a leather guard over his right thumb. He had the bow strung in an instant and fitted an arrow to the string.
But instead of drawing the bowstring in the normal way, with the first three fingers of the right hand, he used his thumb. This gave him a remarkably long draw. He elevated the bow to fully thirty degrees and let fly.
I had been so interested in his manner of shooting that it was a few seconds before I wondered what he was shooting at. We could be under attack! I looked out and saw nothing within reasonable range. Then suddenly a violent thrashing began in the bushes fully two hundred meters downstream by the water's edge.
Tadaos motioned to us, and we pulled for the bank.
"That's a remarkable bow," I said. "What kind is it?"
"Strange question coming from an Englishman," Tadaos said. "It's an English longbow. I bought it from a wool merchant."
After a little searching we found a ten-point buck with an arrow squarely in its skull. Incredible. I couldn't have made that shot with a rifle and telescopic sights!
"Well, gentlemen," the boatman said, "I can now offer better fare than oatmeal. Let's get it aboard! Quickly, now!"
Once we had manhandled the deer on board, I turned to Tadaos. "That was the finest shot that I have ever seen!"
"Thank you, Sir Conrad, but there was a lot of luck in it. Now, with a little more luck, we'll be in fine shape."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, the baron hereabouts is partial to his hunting. He hangs poachers when he can catch them."
"Does he hang accessories to the crime as well?"
"That depends on his mood." Tadaos's eyes were twinkling.
The kid fainted.
I think that these people's shortness must have had a lot to do with vitamin deficiencies. They all craved that deer's internal organs. In the next three days, they ate everything in the animal but the eyeballs and the contents of the large intestine. When I asked for a steak rather than broiled lung, they thought I was crazy, but took me up on it. I also passed up the brain for some cutlets.
That evening we came to the Vistula and tied up for the night. The trip so far had been all downstream, with little real work except at the rapids. But Cracow was upstream on the Vistula, and the next three days were drudgery. No mules were available although it seemed to me that Tadaos hadn't looked very hard.
So, we played Volga Boatmen. Three of us walked along the bank with ropes over our shoulders, while one stayed on the boat.
The work was grueling. At one point, the poet was on the boat, Tadaos was walking in front of me with his bow slung over his back, and the priest was in the rear.
"Tadaos," I said, "if you must work us like horses, you should at least provide us with horse collars."
"What do you mean?"
"You saw my backpack? Make something like that, with a strap across the chest. Tie the rope to the back and a man could at least rest his arms."
Tadaos pondered this for a while. "What if you had to let go in a hurry?"
"Tie the rope in a slipknot."
"Hmm. Not a bad thought, Sir Conrad. I'll make some up, next trip. Do you want to come along to see how they work?"
"No, thank you!"
It was late in the afternoon, and except for a tiny village at the juncture of the Dunajec and the Vistula, we hadn't seen a single habitation or another human being all day.
"I can't get over how empty this country is," I said.
"There are people," the boatman said, "but the river is too open, too dangerous. They live back in the woods in little fortified towns protected by a knight or two."
"What are they afraid of?"
"Bandits. Wolves. Mostly other knights."
"Why doesn't the government do something?"
"The government?" He spat. "Poland doesn't have a government! Poland has a dozen petty dukes who spend their time arguing with each other instead of defending the country. Poland is a land without a king!
"The last king of Poland died a hundred years ago, and he divided the country up among his five sons just so they'd each have their own little duchy to play with! And each of them divided it up still further, being nice to their children.
"Did any of them think about the land? No! They treated the country like it was a dead man's bag of gold to be divided up among the heirs."
"You paint too bleak a picture, master boatman," Father Ignacy said. "There is a strong movement afoot to unify the country. Henryk the Bearded now holds all of Silesia, along with western Pomerania, half of Great Poland, and most of Little Poland. He has the throne at Cracow, and mark my words, his son, young Henryk, will be our next king. I can smell it."
"You think Henryk's line can be kings? Does the Beard act like a king? When Conrad of Mazovia asked for aid against the Prussian raiders, did Henryk come to his aid? No! Henryk was too busy playing politics to help out another Polish duke, so Duke Conrad went and invited those damned Knights of the Cross in. They've taken as much Polish territory as they have Prussian! It was like inviting in the wolves to get rid of the foxes!"
"But politics is an essential part of unifying the country, Tadaos. At least the Polish dukes have never made war on one another the way they do in England or Italy or France."
"No, they prefer ambushes, poison, and an occasional knifing. There'll be war with those Knights of the Cross, you mark my words on that!"
There was no arguing with that statement, so the conversation died for a while.
After supper that night, I was sitting with Father Ignacy apart from the others. "You know, Father, it was the inn. It had to be the inn."
"What was what inn, my son?"
"The Red Gate Inn, on the trail near Zakopane. I must have come back in time when I slept in the inn. Those double steel doors on the storeroom—I had to have been in some kind of time machine."
"Do they make time machines in the twentieth century?"
"What? No. Of course not. But don't you see? If they had a time machine, they could be from any century."
"And you think that your being here is the result of some mechanism rather than an act of God?"
"Father, anything can be an act of God! God can do whatever He wants, but I have to deal with the world in the only way I know how, as an engineer. I think that I should turn back and go back to that inn. Maybe I can find the answer there."
"My son, in the first place, what you are speaking is very close to blasphemy. In the second, there is absolutely no possibility of your making it back up the Dunajec alive, not at this time of year. You could freeze to death before you were halfway there. I wouldn't try it myself except on orders from the Pope, and then I would go knowing that I was a martyr."
"Still, I must try."
"You may believe in machines, my son, but I believe in God. I think that you are here for a reason, and I think that you must find out what it is."
"But—"
"Then there is the fact that we have an agreement with the boatman to take his grain to Cracow. I'm not sure, but I think it likely that this boat of grain represents all of his worldly goods. If this boat gets frozen in, he is a ruined man."
We were silent for a while.
"Father, if you are so concerned about the boatman, why don't you worry about the kid? Tadaos is the sort who could survive almost anything. But from what Tadaos has said about Cracow, the poet isn't likely to live out the winter."
"My son, there is a vast difference between a reasonably honest workingman and a goliard poet. Don't you know anything about them? They glory in sin and drunkenness and debauchery. They mock the Church and ridicule the social order."
"Oh, he's just a lost kid. I think that if you'd give him a chance he'd turn out all right."
"Give him a chance? What do you mean?"
"Give him a job! He's fairly well educated. He's attended the University of Paris. He tells me that he's an artist as well as a poet. If you need copyists, he's a better choice than I am."
"You really think that I should let that into a monastery?"
"I know you should."
"Know? Is this something that you've read in your histories?"
"No, Father. Let's say that I can smell it!"
"Well, I'll think on it. But I make no promises. There is, however, a promise I want you to make, my son. A promise of silence. You must tell no one—and I mean absolutely no one!—that you are a visitor from the future. I give you absolution to invent some plausible lie and to tell it to any who questions you.
"The truth of this matter must be decided by the Holy Church, and until such time as a decision is made, you will be silent."
"But why, Father?"
"Why? Well, in the first place, because I am your confessor and I am telling you to. In the second, do you have any idea of what sort of controversy would be generated by your claims? Hundreds, maybe thousands of people would plague you, wanting to know their futures. Some lunatic would likely start claiming that you were a new messiah. Others would surely denounce you as a creature of the Devil and demand your execution. Do you really want to be at the center of that sort of thing?"
"Good God! No, Father, of course not!"
"Then you will make this vow?"
"Uh, yes, Father. But what does the Church have to do with this?"
"Why, everything! I must make a full and complete report on this matter to my superiors. I am fully confident that my report, with annotations by my superiors, will eventually reach the Vatican and the Pope himself. It is likely that he will appoint commissioners to look into the matter. They will report back, and a decision will eventually be made."
"Decision? On what?"
"On what? Can't you realize that you may be a direct instrument of God, sent by Him for some special purpose?"
"I do not feel like a direct instrument of God."
"Your feelings have nothing to do with it."
"Hmph. Just how long will this decision-making process take?" I asked.
"Maybe two years, maybe ten. But until it is completed, you will not discuss this. I want your vow of silence!"
"What, exactly, do you want me to do?"
"You will get on your knees, and you will repeat after me . . ."
I did as he asked and made a lengthy, legalistic vow. Father Ignacy had apparently been thinking about it for some time. I am keeping that vow, but there was nothing in it that forbade me from writing a private diary, in a language that no one in the thirteenth century could possibly read.
Just before I fell asleep, I said, "Father Ignacy? What if the Church decides that I am not an instrument of God? What if it decides that I am an instrument of the Devil?"
"In that unlikely event, my son, I would expect you, as a good Christian, to obey the dictates of the Church."
Getting to sleep that night was not easy.