“The whole planet is rather overgrown with cities,” Father Uwell agreed, “so, obviously, it’s not the same Terra.”
Rod stopped.
So did the priest. “You hadn’t guessed?”
“Well, yes and no.” Rod gestured vaguely. “I mean, I knew we were several thousand years in the future…”
Father Uwell shook his head.
Rod just watched him for a minute.
Then he said, “What do you mean, ‘no?’ ”
“The stars are the same as they were when I left,” the priest answered. “The whole sphere’s rotated a little—I’d guess we’re somewhere on the North American continent, whereas I’m used to the Italian sky—but there’s no star-drift, no distortion of the constellations. We’re just about 3059 AD.”
“I can’t accept that,” Rod snapped.
“I think the Pope said that to Galileo, once,” Father Uwell sighed. “But I see a peasant, over there; why don’t you ask him?”
Rod looked up. A laborer was out early with his sickle, mowing hay. Rod glanced at his family, decided he could catch up quickly enough, and trotted over to the peasant. He stopped suddenly, remembering where they were. He turned back toward Gwen, and whistled. She looked up, saw the peasant—and all three children dropped to the ground and started walking.
Unfortunately, the peasant had noticed. When Rod got to him, he was still rubbing his eyes. “Good morrow,” Rod called. “Eyes troubling you?”
The peasant looked up, blinking. “I have not waked quite, I think. Were yon children flying?”
Rod glanced over at the kids, then back. “No, you’re still dreaming.”
“Art thou certain?”
“Of course I’m sure! I’m their father. Say, would you happen to know the date?”
The man blinked again. “Date?”
“Uh, the year will do.” Rod took a deep breath. “See, we’re from out of town, and we want to make sure we count the years the same way you do.”
“I see.” He didn’t. “Well… ‘tis the Year of Our Lord 3059… Art thou well?”
Rod realized he was staring. “Uh, just asleep on my feet. I hate it when the day starts so early.”
“Assuredly,” the man said, wondering, “how can it begin, but with sunrise?”
“A good point,” Rod admitted. “Well, thanks for the information. Have a good day!” He turned, and trotted back to Gwen and the kids. As he came up to them, he glanced back; the laborer was still staring at them. Rod grabbed Magnus’s shoulder. “Son, give that guy a quick cat-nap, will you? I want him to think he dreamed us.”
Rod surveyed the site from the hill-top, and nodded. “Good. Very good. Gwen, there’s your thicket…” he pointed to a stand of furze on the near side of the trail… “…and here’s my station, on the slope.”
“Where shall we be, Papa?” Magnus asked eagerly.
“Up here, with Father Uwell, for protection.”
“Their protection?” The priest smiled, amused. “Or mine?”
“Ours,” Rod answered, “Gwen’s and mine. And Elidor’s.”
“Mama,” Geoffrey piped up, “hungry.”
“Me too, come to think of it.” Rod’s stomach growled. He shrugged. “Okay, kids—go find breakfast.”
The children whooped and ran, tumbling down the hillside.
“What will they find?” Father Uwell asked.
Gwen shook her head, smiling. “Only Heaven may know, Father.”
“Care to ask?” Rod prompted.
Father Uwell shook his head, smiling. “I’m afraid my pipeline doesn’t go beyond the Vatican.”
“Yes—the place with the constellations.” Rod frowned.
“Have you absorbed it?” the priest said gently.
“Pretty much. You updated, Gwen?”
She nodded. “I was aware of Father Uwell’s thoughts.”
It didn’t faze him. Rod gave him points. “So, Father…”
“Please.” The priest held up a hand. “We’re apt to be together awhile. My friends call me ‘Al’ ”.
“Right. Well, Father Al, what do you make of it?”
The priest frowned for a second; then he shrugged and smiled. “We’re on Terra, but it’s not the Terra we know—and, by the constellations, it can’t be any other planet.”
“Alpha Centauri A?” Rod said, trying feebly.
The priest shook his head. “No, my friend. Four point three seven light years makes a noticeable difference in the constellations. Besides, I’ve been on its habitable planet, and it looks nothing like this—you might say the terraforming still hasn’t quite taken hold.”
“No, it hasn’t.” Rod had been there, too; it was nice, if you liked wide, empty spaces. “So it’s Terra, and there’s no way out of it.” He swallowed as he realized the double meaning.
Father Al caught it, too. “If humankind can make a way in, they can make a way out,” he said firmly, “but we’ll have to learn a new set of ground rules.”
“Yes,” Rod said grimly. “Let’s stop skirting around it and say it, Father—we’re in another universe.”
“Of course.” Father Al seemed mildly surprised. “You’ve adapted to the concept very well.”
Rod shrugged. “I’m getting used to the place.” He turned to Gwen. “How you feel about it, dear?”
She shrugged. “Is it harder to get home over the void between universes, than over a thousand years?”
“I dunno,” Rod said, “but I bet we’ll find out. Here comes brunch, Father.”
The children came toiling back uphill. Magnus held a few partridge, Geoff proudly bore a rabbit skewered on his sword, and Cordelia had her apron full.
“Rowan. Papa.” She held up some red berries as she came to Rod. “You forgot.”
“You’re right, dear—I did.” Rod accepted the berries ruefully and turned to the priest. “Know what an ash tree looks like, Father?”
They woke about sunset. The children scouted up dinner, and rolled the leftovers in a fresh rabbit-skin for Elidor. “For,” said Gwen, “he’ll surely have had the sense to eat no fairy food.”
“We hope,” Rod said grimly. “If he has, it’ll take more magic than ours to pry him loose from Theofrin.”
“Have no fear,” Magnus assured them, “he hath neither eaten nor drunk. His godmother hath told him tales.”
Rod looked down, startled. “You’re still tuned in on him?”
Magnus nodded.
“Hmm.” Rod rubbed his chin, gazing southward along the track. “Okay, son—when you ‘hear’ him getting close, give an owl-hoot. Any questions?”
Everyone shook their heads.
Except Father Al. “I have several—but I think I’ll have to observe, and work out the answers for myself.”
Rod gave him a withering glance. “I wasn’t talking about theology.”
“Neither was I.”
“That does it.” Rod clapped his hands. “Battle stations, everyone—and keep an eye peeled for spriggans.”
They took their assigned positions, and waited. And waited.
Rod took a stout hold on his ash staff and reminded himself that midnight was the witching hour. Probably a long wait yet…
An owl hooted.
Rod looked up, startled. The real thing, or Magnus? But it hooted again, and it was coming from across the track, high up. He glanced up at the sky, saw only stars, moon, and the light-gray of clouds.
Magnus.
Then he began to hear it—tinkling, like tiny cymbals, and a weird skirling of pipes. Over it all ran a wavering drone, like an army of bees, but soaring from one end of the scale to the other.
Then came the clatter of harness.
Rod glanced up at the thicket above him, but there was no movement. Of course not—Gwen was an old campaigner in her own right.
Then the vanguard appeared.
They wound around a hill at the southern end of the track, a host of small, bright, dancing figures, followed by tall, impossibly slender, elongated horses, coats sheening golden by moonlight. And the riders! They caught Rod’s breath. Extravagantly dressed, in a rainbow of colors—tall, slender, and beautiful. And glowing. Each of them.
And one tiny rider, in the center of the company, slouched over, head low—Elidor!
Rod rolled to his feet. Time to get moving.