Find the Feathered Serpent

Chapter 4 The Blond Giant

Without waiting for Neil’s reaction to his statement, Dave dropped down inside the machine. He began walking toward the control room, his feet wide spread on the curved surface below him.

“Keep an eye on that ship,” he called. And then his body wiggled through the hatchway leading to the control room and the gunlocker.

Neil watched the patch of sail on the horizon. It was still too soon to recognize what type of ship it was. At the moment, it appeared to be an inch-square piece of cloth pasted against the sky.

Unconsciously, Neil glanced at his wrist watch, then grinned to himself as he realized he was estimating the time it would take the ship to reach them.

It was moving exceptionally fast, it seemed, with a strong wind behind it, a wind that tossed Neil’s blond hair wildly about his face.

There was a peaceful stillness to the entire scene. Neil and the machine waiting. The sea gently rolling, green and silent except for the whispered lapping against the machine. The sky-clear, blue, intense. The clouds watching quietly overhead. And the sail, a little closer now, a little larger, but still unreal, almost ghostly.

Dave’s voice broke the silence.

“Want to take these, Neil?”

He handed two rifles through the hatchway, and Neil accepted them gingerly. Dave grabbed either side of the hatchway and pulled himself up to sit beside Neil. He glanced out at the approaching sail and then lifted one of the rifles from Neil’s lap.

“I hope you know how to use that,” he said to Neil.

“I know how to squeeze a trigger. That’s about the extent of it.”

Dave raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. He looked out at the sail again and said, “Looks like we’ve got a little time yet.” He turned again to the rifle in his lap and said. “This little baby here is called the Garand rifle, better known to G.I. Joe as the M1. It’s semiautomatic, gas-operated, and clip-fed, firing a .30 caliber slug.” Dave paused and shook his head, a mild smile on his face. “My gosh, I sound like Sergeant Long,” he said.

“Who’s Sergeant Long?”

“The guy who taught me all I know about the M1 A heck of a nice guy who knew this rifle like the back of his hand.”

Neil’s eyes shifted uncomfortably to the horizon, and Dave followed his glance to the oncoming ship.

He began speaking hurriedly, as if there weren’t much time in which to give Neil all the details.

“This is a clip,” Dave said, holding out a fat, rectangular object. “Contains eight bullets. Once this is in the rifle, you don’t have to load again until you’ve fired all eight.”

“How do you load?” Neil asked.

“Simple.” He placed his fingers on a lever on the right-hand side of the rifle. “This is the operating rod. Pull it back until you hear a click.” He demonstrated. “Then let it go. That leaves this space in the top of your rifle. Slip the clip in and shove it down until the top bullet is opposite the chamber here.”

Neil pulled back the operating rod and let it go when he heard the click.

“You’ve got to be careful with that. Once you hear the click, let it alone. Otherwise, you might uncock it and the darned thing’ll come flying back and hit your hand.” He chuckled softly. “We used to call this ‘Ml Thumb’ because so many guys got smacked on the thumb when that rod snapped back.”

Neil nodded and inserted the clip into the groove on the top of the rifle.

“That’s it,” Dave said. “Right there. That’s it.”

Neil nodded and looked up for further instructions.

“Now push the operating rod forward and that puts a slug in the chamber, ready for firing. When you squeeze the trigger, the empty cartridge will fly back on the right here. When your clip is empty, it’ll fly out and make a sort of ‘twang’ sound. Then you go through the process again, putting another clip in the way I showed you. All clear?”

“Think we’ll have to use these?”

“I don’t know. In the meantime, point that the other way, and get your finger away from that trigger. I went through three years in the Army without a scratch, and I don’t intend to have you shooting me now.”

Neil pointed the rifle out at the water and smiled.

“Here,” Dave said, “you’d better put the safety on until you’re ready to shoot at something.” He reached over inside the trigger guard on Neil’s rifle and pushed a curved bar forward. “When you want to fire, just push that back again and it’ll release the trigger.”

Quickly and expertly, Dave put the safety on his own rifle and then rested the piece on his knees. He looked out over the water and said, “It won’t be long now.”

Neil looked over his shoulder and was surprised at how close the ship had come. It definitely looked like a ship now, a ship with a high prow and a big, square sail.

“I almost forgot,” Dave said, reaching into his pocket. “I ripped this compass from the instrument panel. At least we’ll be able to tell from what direction they’re coming.”

He held the big compass between his hands and waited for the needle to swing to north.

“Look at that needle,” Dave said. “Almost as if it knew we were having company. It’s pointing right at the ship.”

“Then they’re coming from the north?”

“North it is,” Dave answered.

The ship was clearly distinguishable now. It rode high on the water, a strong ship with curving prow and stern. The prow jutted high over the sides of the ship, and an animal’s head seemed to be carved into the end of the sweeping, heavy piece of lumber.

There was a stout mast in the center of the ship, and the big square sail billowed out from it, pushing the trim ship closer to the machine. But what struck Neil about the sail was its coloring. From top to bottom, as bright as a barber pole, were red and white stripes, thick, running perpendicular to the deck of the ship. “A colored sail,” Neil murmured aloud. “Yes.”

Together, they watched, their eyes squinting into the oblique rays of the sun. The ship seemed to swarm with color. Lining each side of the vessel, in a circular array of brilliance, were painted discs. Neil strained his eyes to determine the nature of these discs and then, as the ship drew closer, looming large ahead of them, he recognized them for what they really were. “Shields,” he exclaimed. “Those are shields, Dave.” Dave nodded. “I know.” His eyes narrowed, and he added, “Look at those oars. There must be at least sixteen on each side of the ship.”

The ship was in full view now, and Neil could see men scurrying busily over the deck. The wind filled the red-and-white striped sail, and seamen bent into their oars, muscular arms and backs gleaming with sweat. Together, like dancers in a ballet, the oars lifted, moved toward the stern of the ship, dipped gracefully into the ocean, and pulled forward. And the ship moved closer. Lift, back, dip, pull. Lift, back, dip, pull. Lift, back-Suddenly something stirred in the dim recesses of Neil’s mind. It was a bright October day, in Mrs. Daniels’ history class, and she was describing a ship that might have been this very one.

“Dave,” Neil said, “I may be crazy but-”

“I know just what you’re thinking,” Dave replied, nodding his head vigorously.

Slowly his fingers found their way to the trigger guard on the M1, resting there in readiness.

Neil gripped his rifle tightly, and his hands began to sweat. “Is it what I think it is?”

“It’s not the Queen Mary” Dave said.

“It’s a Norse ship,” Neil said, almost to himself.

“That’s what I think too.”

The ship lifted oars no less than a hundred yards from the time machine. A tall muscular man, his hand resting lightly on the curving prow of the ship, unslung a shield from his back and slipped it over his arm.

A blazing flash of color caught the rays of the sun, reflecting off the metal helmet that rested on his head. The helmet ended just at his forehead, and it gave his head the shape of a bullet. Fastened to either side of the helmet, and glinting in the sun, was a pair of metal wings.

The man was dressed in rough garments, a sleeveless tunic that exposed brown, muscular arms with bulging biceps and forearms. He wore a heavy metal band on the muscle of his right arm, and the muscle seemed to threaten the strength of the band whenever he moved his arm. The tunic was bunched at the waist beneath a leather belt. A large metal disc ornamented the front of the belt, and a heavy battle-ax hung from its side.

The man shouted something to the crew and the ship swung around, its brightly colored sail emptying itself of wind and collapsing like a fat lady into an easy-chair.

Neil heard a faint click, and he knew that Dave had released the safety on his rifle. He did the same and waited.

The man standing in the prow of the ship looked taller as the ship drifted closer. Neil noticed for the first time that he wore a bright, reddish-blond beard.

The man leaned over the side of his ship and shouted something at the time machine.

“What’s he saying?” Dave asked.

“I don’t know.”

As if at a signal, Neil and Dave lifted their rifles. Neil’s finger curled around the trigger guard, ready to slip into position if the need arose. He suddenly thought of something. “Dave. I haven’t got another clip after this one.”

Dave reached into his pocket and handed two clips to Neil. Neil slipped these into his back pocket and looked over at the ship again.

Every member of the crew was clearly visible for the first time.

There were at least twenty-five men in the vessel, and they lined the sides now, muttering among themselves and staring at the time machine.

Again the bearded man in the prow shouted something at them.

Neil’s eyes blinked, and then opened wide. He stared at Dave in disbelief and said, “Why, I almost understood that.”

Dave kept his rifle trained on the ship, but he turned his head to Neil. “How do you mean?”

“Well,” Neil hesitated, unsure of himself, “it sounded like Swedish.”

“Do you understand Swedish?”

“Why, sure. My father was born in Sweden. We spoke it every time my grandfather came to visit.”

Dave considered this for a moment. “Yell something over to the big blond guy. In Swedish, I mean.”

“What shall I say?”

“Just tell him we’re not looking for any trouble, that’s all.”

Neil shouted over to the Norse vessel, “Hel-l-l-l-lo. We are friends and come in peace.” He was surprised at how easily the Swedish came to him, considering he hadn’t spoken it for quite some time.

There was an excited muttering on the Norse ship. The sailors turned to each other, and some pointed at Neil. The blond giant spoke to a man standing beside him and then shouted back, “We too are friends.”

“What’d he say?” Dave wanted to know.

“They’re friends,” Neil told him.

“They probably speak an ancient Swedish,” Dave mused. “Thank God we didn’t run into a Chinese ship.” He glanced skeptically at Neil. “Or do you speak that too?”

Neil grinned. “Just Swedish. And high-school Spanish.”

“Are these guys hard to understand?”

“A little.”

“Think you can get the story from them? Find out if they’ll give us a tow to land?”

“I’ll try.” He turned to the Norsemen again and shouted, “Will you tow us to land?”

Again the sailors reacted to Neil’s voice. Another man joined the bearded blond in the prow. He was short and muscular, with an enormous barrel chest covered with black, curly hair. He stood close to the blond man who, Neil suspected, was captain of the ship. They held a hurried consultation, and then the captain shouted back across the water, in Swedish, in a booming voice, “We are lost, and do not know where there is land. Are you not from these waters?”

Neil turned to Dave and said, “They’re lost too. They think we’re from these parts.”

“What?” Dave asked. He scratched his head in puzzlement. “I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. For a minute there, I thought we’d traveled clear across the Atlantic.” He shook his head and added, “Maybe we are in the Gulf of Mexico, after all. But what are Norsemen doing here? Ask them how they got here, will you?”

“How do you happen to be in these waters?” Neil yelled.

“A storm blew us off course,” the Norseman answered. “We lost nine members of our crew. We have no idea where we are.”

Neil translated, and Dave said, “Find out more.”

“Where are you from?”

“From the Northland. And you?”

“From a land unknown to you.”

“Then how do you speak our tongue?” the Norseman asked.

“My father knows your tongue well.”

“Is this one with you your father?”

“No. This is a friend, Dave Saunders.”

Dave looked up at mention of his name. “What’s going on?” he asked, a puzzled frown stretching across his brow.

“Dave Saunders?” the Norseman asked.

“This is the name he is called,” Neil explained.

“And yours?”

“Neil.”

“My,” Dave remarked. “This is getting to be a regular tea party.”

“I am Erik!” the Norseman said proudly. “Son of Johan the Black, and captain of this vessel.”

“I’m glad to know you,” Neil called politely.

“Ask them if we may come aboard,” Dave said, beginning to get somewhat impatient with all the talk.

“May we come aboard?” Neil shouted to Erik.

The muttering among the sailors grew louder, and Neil saw the short man with the hairy chest shake his head violently and wave his ax in the air.

“What’s biting Shorty?” Dave asked.

“I don’t know,” Neil admitted.

Erik listened to the short man and then called over to Neil, “My crew say your ship is cursed, that you are evil.”

“Our ship is strange to you because it is unlike yours. All the ships in our land are like this one,” Neil lied.

The short, hairy man standing next to Erik shouted, “I am Olaf, son of Lars the shipmaker, and second in command on this vessel. Bring your ship closer that we may examine it.”

“There’s Shorty hopping up and down again,” Dave said. “What’s he want now?”

“They think we’re cursed because of the machine. They want to have a closer look at it.”

“Tell them we’re damaged, and they should come to us. I’ll cover with the rifle.”

Neil cleared his throat and shouted, in Swedish, “Our ship is crippled. We cannot move it. You can row closer if you like.”

Erik listened to Olaf for a minute, and then ordered his crew to row the Norse ship closer to the machine. Several men manned the oars, and the big ship moved nearer. Neil could see the sharpness of the axes as they gleamed in the sun. He could also see the drawn, wary looks on the faces of the sailors. Bearded and dirty, they were, and Neil wondered if it was wise to bring them within striking distance.

The ship drew alongside, and one of the seamen threw a line over. Dave dropped the line into the machine, the heavy wooden chock on its end clunking against the plastic.

Now that Erik was closer, Neil studied his face carefully. He was deeply burned from the sun and the wind, and two clear blue eyes gleamed brightly in his face. His nose was straight and a little on the long side. His beard was a fiery blond that covered his chin, his upper lip, and most of his neck. He had shaggy blond eyebrows, and they were lifted now in speculation.

“We need food,” he said simply. “Do you carry any?”

“Not much,” Neil lied. The expedition had taken enough food to last approximately two weeks. They had expected to live on what they found in Yucatan. Erik’s crew consisted of at least twenty-five hungry men, if not more. They could go through the time machine’s stores in less than five minutes.

“They are evil,” Olaf shouted. “I warn you, Captain, they are evil.”

“Be silent,” Erik ordered, and Olaf clamped his jaws shut, a dull anger smoldering in his eyes. Erik turned to Neil. “Can you lead us to land? We need food and water before we can attempt to reach home.”

Neil turned to Dave. “They want to know if we can lead them to land. What shall I tell them?”

“What tongue do they speak now?” Olaf demanded. “They are evil and they speak the tongue of the Devil.”

“I speak in the tongue of my friend,” Neil answered in Swedish. Then, in English, “What shall I tell them, Dave?”

“Tell them we’ll lead them to land if they take us abord and tow our machine. It’s our only chance, Neil. This baby isn’t going to float much longer.”

“We’ll find land,” Neil said to Erik, “if you tow our ship and take us aboard.”

“Take the Devil aboard,” Olaf said, “and we are doomed.”

Erik walked amidships and began talking softly with his crew. Occasionally, a sailor, his eyes lighting with a strange mixture of fear and wonder, would look over at the machine and Neil. Still, the Norsemen talked among themselves.

Neil and Dave waited patiently.

Finally, Erik strode back to the side of the ship.

“We will take you aboard,” he said simply.

“This is wrong,” Olaf protested. “They will bring us nothing but ill luck. I say throw them to the sharks.”

“And I say take them aboard,” Erik said softly, “and I am captain of this vessel.”

Olaf spat on the deck and swore. “Then take them aboard,” he said, “and suffer the consequences.”

“Shorty doesn’t like us,” Dave said. “I can tell. Don’t ask me how; I can just tell.”

“But they’re taking us aboard,” Neil said happily.

Dave nodded, a smile on his lips. Together, they climbed onto the railing of the Norse ship and dropped to the deck. The crew opened a respectful path for them.

“Your clothes are strange,” Erik remarked.

“The clothes of our land.”

“The clothes of the Devil,” Olaf muttered.

“We’ll need lumber lashed to our ship,” Neil explained, “to keep it afloat so that we too may get home.”

“We’ll give you lumber. Are you sure you can take us to land?”

“Yes,” Neil said, not at all certain that he could.

Quickly, Erik ordered the crew to prepare lumber and lashings. When these were ready, Neil and Dave set to work on the time machine, lashing lumber to the rotors, to the control-room area, and to the upper and lower bubbles. When they were through, they were fairly certain the machine wouldn’t sink in anything less than a storm.

Erik stood watching them all the while they worked, his eyes glued to the rifles slung over their shoulders. When they climbed aboard again, he asked, “What are these long sticks you carry?”

Neil hesitated.

“What does he want to know?” Dave asked.

“The rifles.”

Dave sighed. “I guess you’d better tell him. We’ve trusted him so far.”

“They are weapons,” Neil explained to Erik. “Like your axes.”

“I will have to ask you for them,” Erik said. “To protect my ship.”

“He wants them,” Neil said.

Dave snapped on the safety catch and handed his rifle to Erik. He grinned broadly as Neil handed his rifle over too.

“Which way do we sail?” Erik asked.

“Well, Dave?” Neil asked.

“What does he want?”

“He wants a course.”

“Oh! Just a second.”

Dave climbed over the rail and back into the machine. When he appeared again, he was carrying the compass he’d torn from the instrument panel.

“If we’re near Yucatan,” he said to Neil, “in the Gulf of Mexico, we should sail south.” He pointed in the general direction. “That way.”

Erik’s face clouded momentarily. “Are you sure?” he asked Neil.

“Yes.”

Olaf had padded up to where the men stood talking. He sneered at Neil and said, “And if they are wrong, Captain?”

Erik seemed to think this over. “If they are wrong,” he said slowly, “we shall do as you suggested. We shall throw them to the sharks.”

He rammed his battle-ax into the heavy belt around his waist and walked amidships.

“Man your oars,” he bellowed. “Man your oars.”

The sailors scurried to bow and stern, grasping their oars in sturdy arms. Several men handled the sail, and one man stood in the stern of the ship, handling the tiller.

Erik pointed out their course, and the men pulled on the oars, swinging the great ship around. The sail billowed out with wind, and the ship began to move forward.

Olaf passed close to Neil and whispered, “You had better be right, evil one.”

He swaggered off to the stern of the ship, and Neil stared after him.

“What’s Shorty beefing about now?” Dave asked.

“Nothing,” Neil said. “Nothing.”

The big ship sliced into the waves, its prow pointed south, the wind strong in its sails, and hungry sailors pulling heavily on their oars.