CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Marty stood at the edge of the bustling courtyard. There was mud and damp everywhere, and the previously orderly city within sight of the main palace grounds was in complete shambles after the floods, mudslides, and other chaos of the last couple days. There was a nervous energy in the air as the natives raced back and forth, all of them organized with specific tasks in mind. The news of their planned departure had spread like wildfire, and the preparations were well underway. Amidst the clamor, he found a moment to steal away with Surjan, who for the moment wore a fatigued expression as he took a break from coordinating the evacuation preparedness.
Surjan shook his head and sighed. “Marty, this is a tough position for me to be in, I hope you realize it. I’m not meant to be this type of leader. I just wanted to be a soldier, a part of a team, and this has all gotten to be a bit much.”
He patted the large man on his back and said, “None of us is prepared for what we’re facing. We’re just doing what we can to get by.”
“It’s more than just having these people look to me for leadership . . . I don’t know how you managed to talk me into this.” The large Sikh huffed with frustration. “I became a soldier because I didn’t relish the idea of having women around me or my parents demanding I start a family. And now here I am, about to get ‘married’ for the second time in a week.”
Marty chuckled. “Well, life has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it? Dawa seems different from your prior option. That has to make it a little easier, no?”
“Dawa’s nothing like Halpa, thankfully.” Surjan’s expression softened and he rolled his eyes. “She just let me know she has twenty-three female witnesses for the wedding that she wants to introduce me to. Can you imagine?”
Marty burst out laughing, clapping Surjan on the shoulder once again. “That’s quite the entourage! But don’t worry, everything will work out fine. You never know, maybe you’ve got a built-in harem now.”
Surjan gave him a severe look and shook his head. “I don’t even want to bloody think about that. Dawa herself seems to be pretty shy and humble, which is good, I suppose. This whole wedding thing has me on edge. I feel like a phony and like I’m betraying these people because I know this marriage thing is just an act, at least on my part. I don’t understand these people and their beliefs. Just a few days ago they all seemed loyal subjects of Halpa and her cronies, and now it’s as if she never existed. I can’t help but think about her being out there somewhere . . . She really really despises us.”
Marty shrugged. “Well, hopefully with her hasty departure, she and her entourage end up drowning somewhere out there in the ocean. With any luck, they’re in Davy Jones’s locker already. It’s almost time for the ceremony, isn’t it?”
“Your Highness!”
Surjan and Marty turned to the voice of Kazap as he trudged up the slope and motioned in Surjan’s direction.
“Your Highness, it’s time. Come with me, and I’ll help you prepare for the ceremony.”
“Good luck, buddy.” Marty grinned as Surjan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he walked down the slope, looking much more like a man on his way to the gallows than to his own royal wedding.
As the time for the wedding approached, Marty stood to the side, near the shadows. The palace’s big courtyard and the adjacent rooms filled with nearly all the remaining natives from the island. The air was thick with anticipation and the scent of tropical flowers. Dawa stood beside Surjan, looking genuinely happy. Unlike the former queen, who had a seductive and predatory way about her, Dawa seemed to be a quiet and shy soul, even though she had the radiant beauty of someone in the prime of her youth. With an image of Tafsut the spearwoman in Marty’s mind, he couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s situation. Marty suspected Surjan had taken a liking to the Ancient Egyptian female warrior, and the would-be bride looked a bit like her in some ways. Dawa wore practical, shapely attire that highlighted her hourglass figure, eschewing the ornate finery that her sister had favored.
Surjan glanced down at Dawa, who looked up at him with a shy smile. She reached up and gently finger-combed his long beard, a gesture that Surjan initially seemed to recoil from. But as the would-be bride stepped closer and repeated the gesture, his stern features softened. Even at a distance, Marty saw something in his friend’s demeanor change in the small woman’s presence.
As the ceremony proceeded, a crowd of Dawa’s twenty-three witnesses surrounded the couple and Kazap’s voice droned on and on, speaking of gods and omens and the future. The crowd watched with rapt attention.
It was a surprisingly long and drawn-out ceremony, with Surjan, the pagan priest, and two dozen women at the top of the rise.
Marty felt something in the air that raised the hair on the back of his neck. It was almost as if the priest’s words were carrying an energy of sorts, and as he panned his gaze across the assembled natives, they too seemed to sense something. They all stared up at the couple, enraptured by the ceremony.
The first marriage to Halpa had been very different. It had seemed rushed and almost desperate, with far fewer people to witness the event. This one had pretty much all the remaining Neshili present to witness the wedding of their king. Many of the natives were clearly struck with emotion as vows were exchanged, just like the weddings Marty was familiar with.
Being closer than most to the rise, he saw Dawa’s expression as she stared at her soon-to-be husband. With a mostly downcast gaze, she looked shy, but when she looked up at Surjan to repeat some words the priest had asked her to say, Marty witnessed the expression the young woman wore. Warm affection beamed from her, and had Marty not known any better, it almost seemed like Surjan returned the same look. Dawa was nothing like her sister; she was a beacon of calm and sincerity in the midst of the chaos that surrounded them.
The vows were exchanged, and as Surjan and Dawa were pronounced husband and wife, the crowd erupted with cheers. Marty joined in, clapping and smiling as he watched his friend’s face light up with joy. Despite the looming departure and the uncertainty that lay ahead, this moment was a brief respite, a reminder of the simple, beautiful things worth fighting for.
As the celebration continued, Marty caught Surjan’s eye and raised a glass in a silent toast. Surjan nodded, his eyes conveying both a sense of contentment and determination. They had a long journey ahead, but for now, they could revel in this moment of happiness and hope.
Marty’s thoughts were interrupted by a distant rumble.
His gaze shifted to the nearby ocean as another iceberg scraped past the rocky shelf, a reminder of the rapidly changing conditions that had prompted their impending departure.
Lowanna walked up to him and whispered, “We’re not yet close to being ready to leave. We need a team meeting to figure out what the exact plan is.”
“Agreed.” Marty nodded. “If you can help get folks gathered this evening, we’ll work through the logistics.”
She tilted her head in the direction of the ongoing celebration. “What about Surjan? Should we—”
“Let him enjoy the festivities, God knows he needs some break from things for a moment. I’ll fill him in after we decide what the details of the trip will be.” Marty focused on Lowanna’s somber expression. “Are you okay? I know that spear did a number on you, and—”
“I’m fine.” Lowanna waved the question away brusquely and glanced at the slowly setting sun. “I’ll go start gathering everyone.”
Without hesitation, she turned and walked away.
Marty stared at the receding figure of the dark-skinned woman and sighed.
He sensed that things weren’t “fine” with her, but her irritability and brusqueness had made it kind of hard for him to pry and see if he could help.
A group of Neshili kids almost crashed into him as they ran past, laughing at what seemed to be a game of tag.
Marty closed his eyes for a moment and prayed for wisdom and guidance from anyone who might listen to his thoughts.
Nobody responded.
Gunther moved with purpose through the bustling market square, which had been transformed into a makeshift supply depot for their impending journey. The air was thick with the scent of ripe fruit, fresh fish, and the unmistakable tang of salt from the sea. Islanders scurried about, gathering provisions and packing them into crates and barrels. Gunther, with his sharp eye and keen senses, was tasked with ensuring that all the food was fit for the long voyage ahead.
He paused by a stack of baskets filled with various fruits—soursop, star apples, and guavas. The tropical heat had taken its toll on some of the produce, and the sweet, cloying smell of overripe fruit was unmistakable. Gunther picked up a soursop, examining it closely. Its skin had developed brown spots, and a faint, sour odor emanated from it.
Gunther closed his eyes and focused his energy, feeling the familiar warmth of his preternatural abilities flow through him. He held the soursop in his hands, visualizing the process of purification. A soft glow enveloped the fruit, and the sour smell dissipated, replaced by the fresh, sweet scent of perfectly ripe soursop.
He repeated the process with the rest of the basket, his hands moving swiftly as he purified each piece of fruit. Islanders nearby watched in awe, their faces a mix of relief and admiration. Gunther’s abilities were now well known among them, but seeing him in action never failed to draw their attention.
As he finished the purifying process, the Neshili began processing the fruit for the upcoming travel.
Moving on, Gunther approached a stall where several large fish were laid out on a bed of salt. The fish had been caught earlier that morning, but the heat and humidity had started to take their toll. He could smell the beginnings of spoilage, and he knew they couldn’t afford to lose any of the precious protein.
Gunther placed his hands over the fish, his fingers tracing the contours of their sleek bodies. Again, he summoned from within him an energy that was hard to explain, but at this point had become almost instinctual as he tapped it and focused on purifying the fish. The glow coming from his fingertips was more intense this time, flickering like a blue flame as it encompassed the fish. The off-putting smell vanished, replaced by the clean, briny scent of the ocean.
He worked his way through the market square, purifying everything from meats to grains to vegetables. Each time he finished, he received grateful nods and murmurs of thanks from the islanders as they continued to preserve what they had. They understood the importance of his work—every piece of food he saved meant one less worry for their journey.
Gunther finally approached a wagonload of baskets, each filled with tubers and roots. It was obvious that many of these items wouldn’t make it for the voyage because some of of the yams and potatoes had started to grow mold. He sighed, knowing this would be a more challenging task. But he steeled himself, determined to do whatever it took to ensure their supplies were safe.
He placed his hands on the crates, feeling the rough texture of the woven baskets beneath his fingers. His hands glowed, but instead of the localized eerie glow, light bloomed across the wagon. Gunther felt the energy flowing through him as the contents of the wagon gave off an incandescence that caused everyone nearby to stop and stare.
Gunther felt his energy waning as the mold receded, the tubers’ skins smoothing out and returning to their healthy, vibrant colors. And just as the last of the signs of rot vanished from the food, the world tilted. He grabbed ahold of the wagon.
With sweat beading on his forehead, Gunther barely kept his legs from buckling as one of the nearby islanders approached with a worried expression.
“The magic seems to have drained you, my friend. Here . . .” The middle-aged islander uncorked a large gourd he had hanging from his felt and handed him the vessel with its sloshing content.
Without thinking about it, Gunther took a swig and his mouth was filled with a warm, sweet liquid that went down easily. It was some kind of fermented fruit juice. A primitive tropical wine, maybe?
Gunther’s skin tingled as his belly grew warm from the liquid.
“Go ahead,” the islander insisted, making a drinking motion. “You need it more than I. Drink as much as you can, it will restore your energy.”
Gunther took another swig and felt the warmth spread from his core to his extremities and for only the briefest moment felt lightheaded. The lightheadedness turned into a dull ache as the German stood up straight, feeling surprisingly energized, as promised. “What is this?”
“It is amikawa. It is made from soursop that is fermented and prepared in a special way. Helps with relaxation and sleep.”
“Interesting,” Lowanna said in English.
Gunther turned and saw Lowanna approaching with a determined expression.
“I’m not sure what the root ‘ami’ might mean, but it’s interesting to hear the term ‘kawa’ being used—it means water or even river in some Algonquian languages. Anyway, Gunther, we have a team meeting in a little bit near the palace at sunset. I just want to make sure you’re aware.”
Gunther glanced at the setting sun and nodded. “I’ll be there.”
The German healer handed the gourd back to the islander as Lowanna turned and departed as quickly as she’d appeared.
For a moment, Gunther closed his eyes, reaching within himself and was surprised that he felt like he had something in the tank. He’d overextended himself in the past and knew that he’d just done it again, yet he sensed that he was not totally drained, at least not anymore.
He shifted his attention back to the islander and the gourd, which he was tying back onto his belt. “Friend, are there others who make that drink?”
The islander held an amused expression. “It’s not uncommon to find each family has some amikawa available or being made as an occasional drink. But I should warn you, if you consume too much your mind will not be able to control your legs or body anymore. Are you feeling better?”
Gunther smiled as the man was describing what was almost certainly the effects of getting drunk. Even though he’d felt the warmth of the alcohol, he wasn’t feeling any of those kinds of symptoms anymore. It was almost as if he’d very quickly metabolized all the alcohol, leaving him with nothing but a lingering headache as a side effect of the drink—a reasonable trade-off if it had actually left him a bit more energized. “I am feeling better, thank you. I’ll need to learn how such a thing is made—”
“How what is made?” François asked.
He turned to see François approaching and explained, “It seems our friends have learned to ferment some of the fruits around here into an alcoholic beverage, and I think I might have a good use for it.”
François shifted his gaze to the islander and asked, “Do you have a recipe for this . . .”
“Amikawa,” the islander shook the gourd on his belt, its contents noisily sloshing inside. “Yes, I do. Is that something you—”
“Yes, let me follow up with you tomorrow. Right now, my friend and I have to meet up with some others.” François placed a hand on Gunther’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go off to the palace and figure out where we’re at with supplies and everything else. I just got done talking with Marty and he really wants to get going right away.”
“Okay.” Gunther put two fingers in his mouth and let out a loud whistle.
Two islanders came running and the German pointed at the wagon. “These are all good to go. Let’s get this and the other items I worked on loaded onto the ships and ready to go.”
Without another word the two men called others and the process of loading the ships began.
“Come on.” François began walking toward the palace. “The sooner we get going, the sooner this can all maybe come to an end.”
The flotilla of ships had been sailing south for over a month. The fleet contained nearly thirty vessels, all told, with five of them approximately the size of a Viking longship and the rest considerably smaller. François worked himself into such a habit of counting and recounting the ships every time he turned around, he worried he was becoming permanently compulsive.
The voyage had been long and arduous, with tensions running high as they entered the third week. François had done what he could to assuage everyone’s concern over their heading in the right direction, and it was only with Surjan’s help that there wasn’t a revolt midway through their travels.
François had managed to distract some of the Neshili by teaching them to make and shoot bows. The thorough scavenging of Nesha on their departure had meant that a fire pile of spare wood had made it aboard ship. Some of the wood was fresh, and François had first made a bow and arrows, then demonstrated that it could shoot faster than an atlatl, and that an archer could carry more arrows than a spearman could carry javelins.
Then he had persuaded a number of the men to make their own weapons, and then to learn to shoot. They fired at the mast of one of the ships, with a doubled leather sail stretched behind it to catch missed shots. In time, the men got better.
Still, the islanders weren’t totally distracted. They were rightfully fearful, and to be honest, François felt that same knot of anxiety as the days had stretched into nearly a week since they’d last seen a hint of land.
The warm sun beat down on François as he looked ahead into the direction the primitive sailing ship was aimed. Marty walked over to him and whispered, “It’s been a week since we last saw land—”
“Not quite a week, but it’s getting close.” François responded in a curt fashion. The last sighting of land was by his best estimation Puerto Rico, and it shouldn’t take much more than three days to make the passage across to the northern coast of South America.
The salty breeze filled the sails, pushing their vessel forward at a good clip, but François’s mind was filled with concern. He stood at the bow, his eyes scanning the horizon while the other islanders busied themselves with their tasks.
François snapped his fingers at one of the Neshili. “You, bring me a ballast stone and a rope.”
The islander lurched to comply, but paused mid-stride and asked, “How long of a rope?”
“About four or five body lengths should be enough.”
The islander returned almost immediately with a misshapen ten-pound stone and the required length of woven rope.
François hadn’t done this since he was a child, learning to navigate on his tiny sailboat, but he made quick work of tying the stone to the end of the rope, and walked to the rear of the boat.
Marty followed along and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Watch and you’ll see.” The Frenchman glanced at the sun’s position and then dropped the lead into the water, letting it sink until the rope grew taut. “We’re heading south, as planned, but you’d expect the rope to trail directly behind the boat in a straight line. But what are you seeing?”
Marty stared at the taut rope drifting behind the boat. “It looks like it’s veering a bit to the right.”
A frown creased François’s brow. “The current is pulling us east, and from what I can tell, at a pretty good clip.” His voice was tinged with concern and he began pulling the drift line back onto the ship. “I’m almost positive such currents aren’t the norm in our time, but the drift line doesn’t lie. I had us aiming for the north coast of what will be Venezuela, but if the current’s been like this the entire time, that might explain a few things.”
“That’s not exactly good.” Marty’s frown suddenly matched François’s. “The last thing we need is to miss South America entirely and end up in the open Atlantic.”
“Agreed. Another reason I don’t like feeling we’re in the grip of the current is because Halpa and her people might be in that same grip.” François paused, considering their options. “We need to shift our course southwest to counteract the effects of the current. If we continue as we are, we risk overshooting our destination.” He turned to the islander manning the rudder and pointed southwest. “Aim between south and west from now on.”
François felt the ship begin to shift direction and he panned his gaze at the other ships trailing behind them, feeling a sense of relief.
The navigators on each ship matched the change of course and followed their lead.
It would take more than a handful of hours to pass before François felt a euphoric rush of satisfaction:
Near the western horizon he spotted the first sign of land in (almost) a week!
Despite their efforts, the coastline that eventually came into view was not what he expected. The distinct north-south stretch of land looked familiar, but not in the way François had hoped.
Marty joined him at the bow, squinting at the distant shore. “That’s not Venezuela, is it?” he asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
François shook his head slowly. “No, it’s not. The shape of that coast . . . it reminds me of the eastern coast of Brazil. We must be near the Rego Grande region, not far from the mouth of the Amazon.”
A chill raced up and down François’s spine as he realized that, had he not made the recent course correction, they might have become lost and starved in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
“Well, that’s as good as any other destination, I’d expect, especially if you’re right.”
The worried expressions that the islanders held had been replaced with smiles as they approached the coastline. The fisherman Muwat approached and flashed a toothy grin as he said, “Thank you for finding us our new home. Many of us were worried about ever seeing land again.”
François and Marty exchanged glances and Marty patted the fisherman on his shoulder. “We are approaching a new home, but this place is not yet it. We need supplies to get to our final destination.”
The old man’s jubilant expression melted into one of concern. He remained silent for a few long seconds and then nodded as he turned to get back to his work.
Marty shifted into English and said, “François, we need to keep these guys believing that we’re leading them into a safer place for them to prosper.”
François pursed his lips and nodded. “But do we actually know that’s the case?”
Marty nodded. “I don’t know exactly where, but I’m hoping to hit the Pampas region near the southern tip of South America. It’s a grassland in our time where some of the best beef is raised; we can only hope that it’s a good place for the Neshili to prosper. It’s not mountainous and should do well for farming.”
“These people really aren’t an agrarian society, at least not yet,” François noted. “I’d argue they’re more hunter-gatherers. Also, the Pampas are a low plain, aren’t they? Won’t they be flooded?”
“They might be.” Marty nodded. “But remember that the Pampas are above water after the ice age ends. And if they are flooded, there will be fertile foothills of the Andes somewhere. And I suppose in the meantime there are some skills and knowledge we can leave them with that shouldn’t upset the space-time continuum.”
François rolled his eyes. “You and that space-time continuum—do you even know what that means?”
Marty shook his head and smiled. “Not really, but it sounds good.”
François nodded and remained silent about his concerns.
Would bringing these people to that part of the world, and teaching them anything, cause a huge ripple effect down through the future?
If and when the team came back to their time, would the world be a different place?
That was a question François didn’t have an answer for, and it was a growing concern that nagged at his core.