Star of the Sea

Gutherius was the name of a hunter who often went hunting in the wildwood, for he was poor and his acres meager. One blustery day in autumn he set forth, armed with bow and spear. He did not really expect to take any big game, which had grown scarce and wary. He would set snares for squirrel and hare, then leave them overnight while he pushed on in hopes of knocking down a capercaillie or the like. However, should he come on anything better, he would be ready.

His path took him around a bay. Surf dashed wildly over the reefs outside and whitecaps chopped on the half-sheltered water, although the tide was in ebb. An old woman walked the sand, stooped low, searching for whatever she might find, mussels laid bare or a fish dead but not too rotten. Toothless, fingers knotty and weak, she moved as if every step hurt. Her rags fluttered in the bitter wind.

“Good day, granny,” said Gutherius. “How goes it?”

“Not at all,” said the crone. “If nothing turns up for me to eat, I fear I cannot creep home.”

“Well, now, that would be a pity,” said Gutherius. From his pouch he took the bread and cheese he bore along. “I will give you half of this.”

“You have a warm heart,” she quavered.

“I remember my mother,” he said, “and it honors Nehalennia.”

“Could you spare me the whole of that?” she asked. “You are young and strong.”

“No, I must keep that strength if I am to feed my wife and children,” said Gutherius. “Take what I give and be grateful.”

“I am that,” said the old woman. “You shall have reward. But because you withheld some of it, first you shall have woe.”

“Be still!” cried Gutherius. He hurried onward to get away from the ill-omened words.

Reaching the forest, he set off on trails he knew. Suddenly from the brush bounded a stag. It was a mighty beast, well-nigh big as an elk, and snowy white. Its antlers spread like an ancient oak. “Halloo!” shouted Gutherius. He flung his spear but missed. The stag did not leap in flight. It poised there ahead of him, a dimness against the shadows. He strung bow, nocked arrow, and shot. At the thrum of the string, the animal fled. Yet it went no faster than a man could run, and Gutherius did not see his arrow anywhere. He thought maybe it had struck and he could chase the wounded quarry down. Recovering his spear, he dashed in pursuit.

On and on that hunt went, ever deeper into the wilderness. Always the white stag glimmered just in sight. Somehow Gutherius never tired, the breath never failed him, he ran without cease. He was drunk with running, beyond himself, everything forgotten save the chase.

The sun sank. Twilight welled up. As light failed, the stag put on a burst of speed and vanished. Wind piped among the trees. Gutherius came to a halt, overwhelmed by weariness, hunger, and thirst. He saw that he was lost. “Did yon hag truly curse me?” he wondered. Fear blew through him, colder than the oncoming night. He rolled in the blanket he carried and lay wakeful the whole of the dark hours.

All the next day he blundered about, finding nothing he recognized. Indeed this was an eldritch part of the forest. No beast scuttered in its undergrowth, no bird called from its depths, there was only the wind soughing in the crowns and tearing dead leaves loose. No nuts or berries grew, nor even mushrooms, only moss on fallen logs and misshapen stones. Cloud veiled the sun, by which he might have taken bearings. Wildly he ranged.

Then at dusk he found a spring. He cast himself on his belly to quench his withering thirst. This gave him back his wits, and he looked around him. He had entered a glade, whence he got a sight of the sky, which was clearing. In violet-blue shone the evening star.

“Nehalennia,” he prayed, “have mercy. To you I offer what I should have given freely.” Thirsty as he was, he had been unable to chew his food. He scattered it under the trees for whatever creatures it might help. By the spring he lay down to sleep.

During the night a great storm roared up. Trees groaned and tossed. Branches torn loose hurtled on the wind. Rain flew like spears. Gutherius groped blind in search of shelter. He bumped into a trunk which he felt was hollow. There he huddled through the night.

Morning broke calm and sunny. Raindrops glittered many-hued on twigs and moss. Wings passed overhead. As Gutherius stretched his stiffened body, a dog stepped out of a brake and approached him. It was no mongrel but a tall gray hunting hound. Joy wakened in the man. “Whose are you?” he asked. “Lead me to your master.”

The dog turned and trotted off. Gutherius followed. Presently they came on a game trail and took it. Yet he spied never a sign of humanity. The knowledge grew in him. “You are the hound of Nehalennia,” he dared say. “She has bidden you lead me home, or at least to a berry bush or a hazel where I can still my hunger. I thank the goddess.”

The dog answered naught, merely padded on. Nothing such as the man hoped for came in sight. Instead, after a while the woods opened. He heard the sea and smelled the salt wind off it. The dog sprang to one side and vanished among the shadows. Gutherius must needs trudge on ahead. Worn though he was, happiness burned in him, for he knew that if he followed the shoreline south, he would reach a fisher village where he had kinfolk.

At the strand he stopped, amazed. A ship lay in the shadows, driven aground by the storm, dismasted and unseaworthy though not wholly wrecked. The crew had survived. They sat about in despair, being foreigners who kenned nothing of this coast.

Gutherius went to them and discovered their plight. By signs he told them he could be their guide. They fed him and left some men on guard while others took rations and accompanied him.

In this wise did Gutherius gain the reward he had been promised: for the ship bore a rich cargo and the procurator ruled that he who saved the crew was entitled to a fair share. Gutherius thought the old woman must have been Nehalennia herself.

Because she is goddess of ships and trade, he invested his gains in a vessel that plied the Britain run. Ever did she enjoy fair weather and a following wind, while the wares she bore commanded high prices. Gutherius became a wealthy man.

Mindful of thanks he owed, he raised an altar to Nehalennia, where after each voyage he made generous offering; and whenever he saw the evening star or the morning star shine forth, he bowed low, for they too are Nehalennia’s.

Hers are the trees, the vine, and the fruits thereof. Hers are the sea and the ships that plow it. Hers are the well-being of mortals and peace among them.

20

“I just got your letter,” Floris had said on the phone. “Oh, yes, Manse, do come as soon as you can.” Everard hadn’t wasted time aboard a jet. He stuck his passport in a pocket and hopped directly from the Patrol’s New York office to the one in Amsterdam. There he drew some Dutch money and got a cab to her place.

When he entered the apartment and they embraced, her kiss was tender rather than passionate and soon ended. He was unsure whether that surprised him or not, disappointed or relieved. “Welcome, welcome,” she breathed in his ear. “It has been too long.” Yet the litheness pressed lightly against him and moved quickly back. His pulse began to slow.

“You’re looking great as always,” he said. True. A brief black gown hugged the tall figure and set off the amber braids. Her sole jewelry was a silver thunderbird pin above her left breast. In his honor?

A small smile curved her mouth. “Thank you, but look closer. I am very tired, very ready for my holiday.”

In and around the turquoise eyes he did see hauntedness. What more has she witnessed since last we said good-bye? he thought. What have I been spared? “I understand. Yeah, better than I like to. You had ten people’s work loaded on you. I should have stayed and helped.”

She shook her head. “No. I realized it then, and I still do. Once the crisis was resolved, the outfit had much better uses for you, the Unattached agent. You had authority to assign yourself to the remainder of the mission, but a higher claim on your lifespan.” Again she smiled. “Old dutiful Manse.”

Whereas you, the Specialist who really knows the milieu, must see the job through. With whatever assistance you got from your fellow researchers and from auxiliaries newly trained for the purpose—not much, huh?—you must watch over events; make certain they continued on the Tacitus One course; no doubt intervene, most carefully, now and then, here and there: till at last they were out of the unstable space-time zone and could safely be left to themselves.

Oh, you have earned your holiday, all right.

“How long were you in the field?” he asked.

“From 70 to 95 A.D. Of course, I skipped about, so on my world line it totalled . . . somewhat over a year. You, Manse? What have you been busy with?”

“Frankly, nothing except recuperation,” he admitted. “I knew you’d return to this week because of your parents, as well as your public persona, so I went directly to it, allowed us a few days’ rest, then wrote you.”

Was that fair? I’ve bounced back. For one thing, I’m less sensitive than you; what happens in history racks me less savagely. For another, you’ve endured those added months yonder.

It was as if her gaze sought behind his face. “You’re sweet.” Hastily laughing, she seized his hands. “But why do we stand here? Come, let us be comfortable.”

They proceeded to the room of pictures and books. She had set the low table with coffee, canapés, miscellaneous accessories, the Scotch she knew he liked—yes, the very Glenlivet, which he couldn’t even recall ever mentioning specifically to her. Side by side they took the sofa. She leaned back and beamed. “Comfort?” she purred. “No, luxury. Once again I am learning to appreciate my birth era.”

Is she really relaxing, or is that a pretense? I sure can’t. Everard sat on the edge of his cushion. He poured coffee for them both and a neat whisky for himself. When he cast her a glance, she gestured no and took her cup. “This is early for me,” she said.

“Hey, I wasn’t proposing to tie one on,” he assured her. “We’ll take it easy, and talk, and go out to dinner, I hope. How about that delightful little Caribbean place? Or I can wreak havoc on a rijstaffel, if you prefer.”

“And afterward?” she asked quietly.

“Well, uh—” He felt the blood in his cheeks.

“You see why I need to keep my head clear.”

“Janne! Do you think I—”

“No, certainly not. You are an honorable man. More honorable than is quite good for you, I believe.” She laid a hand on his knee. “We will, as you suggest, talk.”

The hand lifted before he could throw an arm around her. Through an open window drifted the mildness of spring. Traffic sounded like distant surf.

“It is no use playing merry,” she said after a while.

“I guess not. We may as well go straight to the serious.” Oddly, that eased him a trifle. He sat back, glass in hand. You inhaled this delicate smokiness as much as you sipped it.

“What will you do next, Manse?”

“Who knows? We never have a dearth of problems.” He turned to look at her. “I want to hear about your doings. You succeeded, obviously. I’d have been informed if there were any anomalies.”

“Such as more copies of Tacitus Two?”

“None. That single manuscript exists, and whatever transcriptions the Patrol made of it, but now it’s just a curiosity.”

He felt her slight shiver. “An object uncaused, formed out of nothing for no reason. What a terrifying universe. It was easier being ignorant about variable reality. Sometimes I regret I was recruited.”

“And also when you are present at certain episodes. I know.” He wanted to kiss the unhappiness off her lips. Should I try? Could I?

“Yes.” The bright head lifted, the voice throbbed. “But then I think of the exploring, the discovering, the helping, and I am glad again.”

“Good lass. Well, tell me about your adventures.” A slow lead-up to the real question. “I haven’t retrieved your report yet, because I wanted to hear it from you personally.”

Her spirit flagged. “You had better get the report if you are interested,” she said, looking across the room to the picture of the Veil Nebula.

“What? . . . Oh. Tough for you to talk about.”

“Yes.”

“But you did succeed. You did get history secured, and in the right pattern, with peace and justice.”

“A measure of peace and justice. For a time.”

“That’s the best human beings can ever expect, Janne.”

“I know.”

“We’ll skip the details.” Were they really that gory? My impression was that reconstruction went pretty smoothly, and the Low Countries did rather well in the Empire till it started coming apart. “But can’t you tell me a few things? What about the people we met? Burhmund?”

Floris’s tone lightened a bit. “He received amnesty, like everyone else. His wife and sister were restored to him unharmed. He retired to his lands in Batavia, where he ended his days modestly prosperous, a kind of elder statesman. The Romans, too, respected and often consulted him.

“Cerialis became governor of Britain, where he conquered the Brigantes. Tacitus’s father-in-law Agricola served under him, and you may recall that the historian rates him well.

“Classicus—”

“Never mind for now,” Everard interrupted. “Veleda-Edh?”

“Ah, yes. After bringing about that meeting at the river, she disappears from the chronicle.” The complete chronicle, retrieved by time travelers.

“I remember. How come? Did she die?”

“Not for another twenty years. A ripe old age in that era.” Floris frowned. Did dread touch her anew? “I wondered. You would think her fate would interest Tacitus enough for him to mention it.”

“Not if she went into obscurity.”

“She didn’t, quite. Could it be that I was making my own change in the past? When I reported my doubts, I was ordered to proceed and told that in fact this was a proper part of history.”

“Okay, then it was. Don’t worry. It could be a trivial glitch in causality. If so, it doesn’t matter. That kind happens a lot, and has no consequences of any importance. Or it could straightforwardly be due to Tacitus not knowing or caring what became of Veleda after she ceased to be a political force. She did, didn’t she?”

“In a way. Although—The program I thought of and suggested, and that the Patrol approved, it occurred to me because of what I knew, what I had seen, before I had any idea the Patrol exists. I heartened Edh, foretold what she would and must do, saw to the necessary arrangements, watched over her, appeared to her whenever she seemed to need her goddess—” Again Everard saw Floris troubled. “The future was creating the past. I hope I will escape any more such experiences. Not that this was horrible. No, it was worthwhile, I felt that it justified my life. But—” Her voice faded away.

“Eerie,” Everard supplied. “I know.”

“Yes,” she said softly, “you have your own secrets, don’t you?”

“Not from the Patrol.”

“From those you care about. Things that would hurt you too much to speak of, or would hurt them too much to hear.”

This is cutting near the bone. “Okay, what about Edh? I trust you made her as happy as possible.” Everard paused. “I’m sure you did.”

“Were you ever on the island of Walcheren?” Floris asked.

“M-m, no. Down close to the Belgian border, isn’t it? Wait. I’ve a vague recollection you once made a remark about archaeological finds there.”

“Yes. They are mostly stones with Latin inscriptions, from about the second and third centuries. Thank offerings, usually for a safe voyage to Britain and back. The goddess to whom they are dedicated had a temple at one of the North Sea ports of embarkation. She is represented on some of the stones, with a ship or a dog, often bearing a horn of plenty or surrounded by fruit and grain. Her name was Nehalennia.”

“Fairly important, then, at least in that area.”

“She did what gods are supposed to do, gave courage and solace, made men a little more decent than they might otherwise have been, and sometimes opened their eyes to beauty.”

“Wait!” Everard sat straight. A prickling went up his spine and over his scalp. “That deva of Veleda’s—”

“The ancient Nordic goddess of fertility and the sea, Nerthus, Niaerdh, Naerdha, Nerha, many different versions of the name. Veleda made her the avenging deity of war.”

Everard regarded Floris for an intense moment before he said, “And you got Veleda to proclaim her once more peaceful and bring her south. That’s as . . . as marvelous an operation as I’ve ever heard of.”

Her glance dropped from his. “No, not really. The potential was there, above all in Edh herself. What a woman she was. What might she have done in a luckier age? . . . On Walcheren the goddess was called Neha. She had become minor, even as an agricultural and maritime divinity. A primitive association with hunting still clung to her. Veleda arrived, revitalized the cult, gave it fresh elements suited to the civilization that was transforming her people. They came to speak of the goddess with a Latin tag, Neha Lenis, Neha the Gentle. In time that turned into Nehalennia.”

“She must have mattered a lot, if they worshiped her centuries later.”

“Evidently. Sometime I would like to trace out the history, if the Patrol can spare that much lifespan of mine.” Floris sighed. “In the end, of course, the Empire collapsed, the Franks and Saxons ravaged around, and when a new order of things arose it was Christian. But I like to imagine that something of Nehalennia lingered on.”

Everard nodded. “Me too, from what you say. It could well have. A lot of medieval saints were pagan gods in disguise, and those that were historical often took on attributes of the gods, in folklore or in the Church itself. Midsummer fires were still lighted, though it was now the Eve of Saint John. Saint Olaf fought trolls and monsters like Thor before him. Even the Virgin Mary has aspects of Isis, and I daresay quite a few legends about her were originally local myths. . . .” He shook himself. “You’re familiar with this. And it is straying kind of far. How was Edh’s life?”

Floris looked beyond him and this year. Her words flowed slow. “She grew old in honor. She never married, but she was like a mother to the people. The island was low, a birthplace of ships, like her girlhood home, and the temple of Nehalennia stood on the edge of her beloved sea. I think—I can’t be sure, for how much can a goddess know of a mortal’s heart?—I think she became . . . serene. Is that what I am trying to say? Certainly as she lay dying—” The voice caught. “—as she lay on her deathbed—” Floris fought the tears and lost.

Everard drew her to him, put her head on his shoulder and stroked her hair. Her fingers clutched at his shirt. “Easy, lass, easy,” he whispered. “Some memories will always hurt. You came to her that one last time, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she mumbled against him. “What else could I do?”

“Sure. How could you not have? You eased her passing. What’s wrong with that?”

“She—she asked—and I promised—”

Floris wept.

“A life beyond the grave,” Everard realized. “A life with you, forever in the sea-home of Niaerdh. And she went happily into the dark.”

Floris tore from him. “It was a lie!” she yelled. She sprang to her feet, stumbled around the coffee table, paced back and forth on the floor. Sometimes her hands strained against one another, sometimes fist beat palm, over and over. “All those years were a lie, a trick, I was using her! And she believed in me!”

Everard decided he had better stay seated. He poured himself a new drink. “Calm down, Janne,” he urged. “You did what you had to, for the whole world’s sake. And you did it lovingly. As for Edh, you gave her everything she could have wished for.”

“Bedriegerij—false, empty, like so much else I have done.”

Everard ran the silky fire over his tongue. “Listen, I’ve gotten to know you rather well. You’re as honest a person as I’ve ever met. Too damn honest, in fact. You’re also a very kind person by nature, which matters more. Sincerity is the most overrated virtue in the catalogue. Janne, you’re wrong when you imagine there’s anything here to forgive. But go ahead anyway, put your common sense in gear and forgive yourself.”

She stopped, confronted him, gulped, wiped the tears, and spoke with a gradually strengthening steadiness: “Yes, I . . . understand. I, I thought about this . . . for days . . . before I made my proposal to the Patrol. Afterward I s-s-stuck by it. You are right, it was necessary, and I know that many stories people live by are myths, and many myths were manufactured. Pardon this scene. It was quite a short while ago, on my world line, that Veleda died in the arms of Nehalennia.”

“And the memory overwhelmed you. Sure. I’m sorry.”

“It was not your fault. How could you have known?” Floris drew a long breath. The hands clenched at her sides. “But I do not want to lie more than I must. I never want to lie to you, Manse.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, half in fear, half in foreknowledge.

“I have been thinking about us,” she said. “Thinking hard. I suppose what we did, coming together, was wrong—”

“Well, ordinarily it would’ve been, but in this case it didn’t foul us up in our job. If anything, I felt inspired. It was damn wonderful.”

“It was for me.” Still she grew inexorably more and more calm. “You came here today in hopes of renewing it, did you not?”

He attempted a grin. “I plead guilty. You’re hell on wheels in bed, darling.”

“You are no prutsener.” The faint smile died. “What further had you in mind?”

“More of the same. Often.”

“Always?”

Everard sat mute.

“It would be difficult,” Floris said. “You Unattached, I a Specialist field agent. We would spend most of our lives apart.”

“Unless you transferred to data coordination or something else where you could work at home.” Everard leaned forward. “You know, that’s an excellent idea in itself. You’ve got the brains for it. Be done with all that risk and hardship and, yes, witness of suffering which you’re forbidden to prevent.”

She shook her head. “I do not wish to. In spite of everything, I feel I am worth most in the field, my field, and will be until I am too old and feeble.”

If you survive so long. “Yeah. Challenge, adventure, fulfillment, and the occasional chance to help. You’re that sort.”

“I could come to hate the man who made me give them up. I do not wish this either.”

“Well, uh—” Everard rose. “All right,” he said. It felt like bailing out of a plane. You gave yourself to your parachute. “Not much domestic bliss, but in between missions, something extra special and entirely our own. Are you game?”

“Are you?” she answered.

In midstride toward her, he halted.

“You are aware of what my work can require,” she said. Her face had gone pale. It’s not a blushing matter, he thought at the back of his mind. “On this past mission, too. I was not all the time a goddess, Manse. Now and then I found it useful to be a Germanic woman far from home. Or I simply wanted a night’s forgetfulness.”

The blood thudded in his temples. “I’m no prude, Janne.”

“But you are a Middle American farm boy. You have told me so, and I have learned it is true. I can be your friend, your partner, your mistress, but never, down inside you, anything more. Be honest.”

“I’m trying,” he said harshly.

“It would be worse for me,” Floris finished. “I would have to keep too much from you. I would feel I was betraying you. That makes no sense, no, but it is what I would feel. Manse, we had better not fall more in love. We had better say good-bye.”

They spent the next few hours together, talking. Then she laid her head on his breast, he hugged her for a minute, and he departed.