The Best Time Travel Stories of the 20th Century (18 page)

—free enterprise, militarism, imperialism, individual styles of governing—on the society
and political structure of a created world. Two characters, distinct products of their
different times and civilizations, dominate the series’ most notable episodes: Falstaffian
rogue merchant Nicholas van Rijn, hero of
The Man Who Counts, Satan’s World,
and
Mirkheim
; and Ensign Dominic Flandry, whose adventures include
We Claim These Stars, Earthman, Go Home!
and
A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows.
Anderson has
tackled many of science fiction’s classic themes, including near–light-speed travel in
Tau Zero,
time travel in the series of Time Patrol stories collected as
Guardians of Time,
and acclerated evolution in
Fire Time.
He is known for his interweaving of
science fiction and history, notably in his novel
The High Crusade,
a superior first-contact tale in which a medieval army captures an alien spaceship. Much of Anderson’s
fantasy is rich with undercurrents of mythology, notably his heroic fantasy
Three Hearts and Three Lions,
and
A Midsummer Tempest,
an alternate history drawn from the
background of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Anderson received the Tolkien Memorial
Award in 1978. With his wife, Karen, he wrote the
King of Ys
Celtic fantasy quartet,
and with Gordon Dickson the amusing Hoka series. His short fiction has been collected
in numerous volumes, including
The Queen of Air and Darkness and Other Stories, All One Universe, Strangers from Earth,
and
Seven Conquests.

The idea of a man going back in time to change the past has been well mined over the
decades (L. Sprague de Camp’s
Lest Darkness Fall
and de Camp’s short story

“Aristotle and the Gun” are two classic examples). Anderson’s “The Man Who Came
Early” is a paradigm of the idea. When all is said and done, a man sent back in time
with nothing save what he is carrying on himself is just a man, no matter how grand the
ideas he knows or the technology he’s used in the his own time. The attention to tenth
-

century Nordic life makes the contrast between the erstwhile time traveler and his new
surroundings all the more real.

by Poul Anderson

Yes, when a man grows old he has heard so much that is strange there’s little more can surprise him. They say the king in Miklagard has a beast of gold before his high seat which stands up and roars. I have it from Eilif Eiriksson, who served in the guard down yonder, and he is a steady fellow when not drunk. He has also seen the Greek fire used, it burns on water.

So, priest, I am not unwilling to believe what you say about the White Christ. I have been in England and France myself, and seen how the folk prosper. He must be a very powerful god, to ward so many realms... and did you say that everyone who is baptized will be given a white robe? I would like to have one. They mildew, of course, in this cursed wet Iceland weather, but a small sacrifice to the house-elves should—No sacrifices? Come now! I’ll give up horseflesh if I must, my teeth not being what they were, but every sensible man knows how much trouble the elves make if they’re not fed.

Well, let’s have another cup and talk about it. How do you like the beer? It’s my own brew, you know. The cups I got in England, many years back. I was a young man then...

time goes, time goes. Afterward I came back and inherited this, my father’s farm, and have not left it since. Well enough to go in viking as a youth, but grown older you see where the real wealth lies: here, in the land and the cattle.

Stoke up the fires, Hjalti. It’s getting cold. Sometimes I think the winters are colder than when I was a boy. Thorbrand of the Salmondale says so, but he believes the gods are angry because so many are turning from them. You’ll have trouble winning Thorbrand over, priest. A stubborn man. Myself, I am open-minded, and willing to listen at least.

Now, then. There is one point on which I must set you right. The end of the world is not coming in two years. This I know.

And if you ask me how I know, that’s a very long tale, and in some ways a terrible one. Glad I am to be old, and safe in the earth before that great tomorrow comes. It will be an eldritch time before the frost giants fare loose... oh, very well, before the angel blows his battle horn. One reason I hearken to your preaching is that I know the White Christ will conquer Thor. I know Iceland is going to be Christian erelong, and it seems best to range myself on the winning side.

No, I’ve had no visions. This is a happening of five years ago, which my own household and neighbors can swear to. They mostly did not believe what the stranger told; I do, more or less, if only because I don’t think a liar could wreak so much harm. I loved my daughter, priest, and after the trouble was over I made a good marriage for her.

She did not naysay it, but now she sits out on the ness-farm with her husband and never a word to me; and I hear he is ill pleased with her silence and moodiness, and spends his nights with an Irish leman. For this I cannot blame him, but it grieves me.

Well, I’ve drunk enough to tell the whole truth now, and whether you believe it or not makes no odds to me. Here... you, girls!... fill these cups again, for I’ll have a dry throat before I finish the telling.

It begins, then, on a day in early summer, five years ago. At that time, my wife Ragnhild and I had only two unwed children still living with us: our youngest son Helgi, of seventeen winters, and our daughter Thorgunna, of eighteen. The girl, being fair, had already had suitors. But she refused them, and I am not one who would compel his daughter. As for Helgi, he was ever a lively one, good with his hands but a breakneck youth. He is now serving in the guard of King Olaf of Norway. Besides these, of course, we had about ten housefolk—two thralls, two girls to help with the women’s work, and half a dozen hired carles. This is not a small stead.

You have seen how my land lies. About two miles to the west is the bay; the thorps at Reykjavik are some five miles south. The land rises toward the Long Jökull, so that my acres are hilly; but it’s good hay land, and we often find driftwood on the beach. I’ve built a shed down there for it, as well as a boathouse.

We had had a storm the night before—a wild huge storm with lightning flashes across heaven, such as you seldom get in Iceland—so Helgi and I were going down to look for drift. You, coming from Norway, do not know how precious wood is to us here, who have only a few scrubby trees and must get our timber from abroad. Back there men have often been burned in their houses by their foes, but we count that the worst of deeds, though it’s not unheard of.

As I was on good terms with my neighbors, we took only hand weapons. I bore my ax, Helgi a sword, and the two carles we had with us bore spears. It was a day washed clean by the night’s fury, and the sun fell bright on long, wet grass. I saw my stead lying rich around its courtyard, sleek cows and sheep, smoke rising from the roofhole of the hall, and knew I’d not done so ill in my lifetime. My son Helgi’s hair fluttered in the low west wind as we left the buildings behind a ridge and neared the water. Strange how well I remember all which happened that day; somehow it was a sharper day than most.

When we came down to the strand, the sea was beating heavy, white and gray out to the world’s edge, smelling of salt and kelp. A few gulls mewed above us, frightened off a cod washed onto the shore. I saw a litter of no few sticks, even a baulk of timber...

from some ship carrying it that broke up during the night, I suppose. That was a useful find, though as a careful man I would later sacrifice to be sure the owner’s ghost wouldn’t plague me.

We had fallen to and were dragging the baulk toward the shed when Helgi cried out. I ran for my ax as I looked the way he pointed. We had no feuds then, but there are always outlaws.

This newcomer seemed harmless, though. Indeed, as he stumbled nearer across the black sand I thought him quite unarmed and wondered what had happened. He was a big man and strangely clad—he wore coat and breeches and shoes like anyone else, but they were of odd cut, and he bound his trousers with leggings rather than straps. Nor had I ever seen a helmet like his: it was almost square, and came down toward his neck, but it had no nose guard. And this you may not believe, but it was not metal, yet had been cast in one piece!

He broke into a staggering run as he drew close, flapped his arms and croaked something. The tongue was none I had heard, and I have heard many; it was like dogs barking. I saw that he was clean-shaven and his black hair cropped short, and thought he might be French. Otherwise he was a young man, and good-looking, with blue eyes and regular features. From his skin I judged that he spent much time indoors. However, he had a fine manly build.

“Could he have been shipwrecked?” asked Helgi.

“His clothes are dry and unstained,” I said; “nor has he been wandering long, for no stubble is on his chin. Yet I’ve heard of no strangers guesting hereabouts.”

We lowered our weapons, and he came up to us and stood gasping. I saw that his coat and the shirt underneath were fastened with bonelike buttons rather than laces, and were of heavy weave. About his neck he had fastened a strip of cloth tucked into his coat.

These garments were all in brownish hues. His shoes were of a sort new to me, very well stitched. Here and there on his coat were bits of brass, and he had three broken stripes on each sleeve; also a black band with white letters, the same letters on his helmet. Those were not runes, but Roman—thus: MP. He wore a broad belt, with a small clublike thing of metal in a sheath at the hip and also a real club.

“I think he must be a warlock,” muttered my carle Sigurd. “Why else so many tokens?”

“They may only be ornament, or to ward against witchcraft,” I soothed him. Then, to the stranger: “I hight Ospak Ulfsson of Hillstead. What is your errand?”

He stood with his chest heaving and a wildness in his eyes. He must have run a long way. At last he moaned and sat down and covered his face.

“If he’s sick, best we get him to the house,” said Helgi. I heard eagerness; we see few faces here.

“No... no...” The stranger looked up. “Let me rest a moment—”

He spoke the Norse tongue readily enough, though with a thick accent not easy to follow and with many foreign words I did not understand.

The other carle, Grim, hefted his spear. “Have vikings landed?” he asked.

“When did vikings ever come to Iceland?” I snorted. “It’s the other way around.”

The newcomer shook his head as if it had been struck. He got shakily to his feet.

“What happened?” he said. “What became of the town?”

“What town?” I asked reasonably.

“Reykjavik!” he cried. “Where is it?”

“Five miles south, the way you came—unless you mean the bay itself,” I said.

“No! There was only a beach, and a few wretched huts, and—”

“Best not let Hialmar Broadnose hear you call his thorp that,” I counseled.

“But there was a town!” he gasped. “I was crossing the street in a storm, and heard a crash, and then I stood on the beach and the town was gone!”

“He’s mad,” said Sigurd, backing away. “Be careful. If he starts to foam at the mouth, it means he’s going berserk.” 

“Who are you?” babbled the stranger. “What are you doing in those clothes? Why the spears?”

“Somehow,” said Helgi, “he does not sound crazed, only frightened and bewildered.

Something evil has beset him.”

“I’m not staying near a man under a curse!” yelped Sigurd, and started to run away.

“Come back!” I bawled. “Stand where you are or I’ll cleave your louse-bitten head.”

That stopped him, for he had no kin who would avenge him; but he would not come closer. Meanwhile the stranger had calmed down to the point where he could talk somewhat evenly.

“Was it the
aitsjbom
?” he asked. “Has the war started?”

He used that word often,
aitsjbom,
so I know it now, though I am unsure of what it means. It seems to be a kind of Greek fire. As for the war, I knew not which war he meant, and told him so.

“We had a great thunderstorm last night,” I added. “And you say you were out in one too. Maybe Thor’s hammer knocked you from your place to here.”

“But where is here?” he answered. His voice was more dulled than otherwise, now that the first terror had lifted.

“I told you. This is Hillstead, which is on Iceland.”

“But that’s where I was!” he said. “Reykjavik... what happened? Did the
aitsjbom
destroy everything while I lay witless?”

“Nothing has been destroyed,” I said.

“Does he mean the fire at Olafsvik last month?” wondered Helgi.

“No, no, no!” Again he buried his face in his hands. After a while he looked up and said: “See here. I am
Sardjant
Gerald Robbins of the United States army base on Iceland. I was in Reykjavik and got struck by lightning or something. Suddenly I was standing on the beach, and lost my head and ran. That’s all. Now, can you tell me how to get back to the base?”

Those were more or less his words, priest. Of course, we did not grasp half of them, and made him repeat several times and explain. Even then we did not understand, save that he was from some country called the United States of America, which he said lies beyond Greenland to the west, and that he and some others were on Iceland to help our folk against their foes. This I did not consider a lie—more a mistake or imagining. Grim would have cut him down for thinking us stupid enough to swallow that tale, but I could see that he meant it.

Talking cooled him further. “Look here,” he said, in too calm a tone for a feverish man, “maybe we can get at the truth from your side. Has there been no war you know of? Nothing which—Well, look here. My country’s men first came to Iceland to guard it against the Germans. Now it is the Russians, but then it was the Germans. When was that?”