I told them what had happened in the world I came from as best as I could remember my history. I told them of Alexander, of Rome, of the rise of Islam (with the father of their Prophet as its leader), of Christianity, and of a Europe at first united then split by religion, of plague, wars, of science, everything I could think of.
The more I told, the more it began to sound to me like a story of greed, folly and misfortune, like a tale told by a crazed and vindictive storyteller with a grudge against humanity.
I told them of that last, terrible war, of the death and dying, and of that last valiant attempt, of which I had been part, to change all the terrible things that led to the war.
When I finished, I thought they were going to applaud. Their faces were a little sad, but awed, as if I were an entertainer with a trick that had outdone all others they had ever seen.
‘Allah works with each of us in his own way,’ said Ali the physician.
‘Come back with us!’ said el Hama, suddenly. ‘There is a man they tell of in Baghdad who appeared one day years ago with a tale such as yours. He is dead now, but some of the learned who talked with him are still alive. Come back with us to the lands of learning, and speak with them.’
‘I doubt I could do anything but confuse them,’ I said. ‘Your invitation is tempting. Ask me again when you come back downriver. I’ll think about it till then.’
I wondered if others in the Project had been tossed into this world. Or were there others from somewhere else, some other time than mine, or from the future or past of this world, or yet another?’
I was tired. My mind could hold only so many things in it. I had reached my limit on novelty and culture shock.
False dawn tinged the sky over the River.
‘You have been very helpful,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you enough.’
‘If you wish to go with us when we return, you are welcome,’ said el Hama. He shook both my hands with his. ‘We will return halfway through the next moon awash to the line with goods. And perhaps we can ride your horse again? One gets so tired of the ship.’
‘At any time,’ I said. ‘Thank you. And thank you, Ali.’
‘Take this when you go,’ said el Hama. One of the Northerners handed me a three-kilo bag of ground coffee.
I felt like crying as I left – for myself, for losing my way, for ending up in this other, crazy world, for mankind. For the coffee. It was all too much.
As they let the ramp down for me to get ashore, I heard one of the Northerners sneeze.
Bessie X
WAR DEPARTMENT
21 July 1929
RE: Serial Nos Possible US
Army Personnel, yours 18
July 1929
Kincaid
Salvage Survey
c/o Dixie Hotel
Suckatoncha Louisiana
via Baton Rouge
Dr. Kincaid:
US DOInterior Veteran’s Bureau lists three names: one Mexican War died active duty Nevada Territory 1852, two GAR veterans one died April 1872 Abrams Massachusetts, one Old Soldier’s Home, Seip Va. DOBs do not match in any case. List w/particulars sent via US Mail.
Daughters Confederacy, SA War Veterans, Navy-Marine Corps DOTreasury searches not yet completed.
ETA Cpt Thompson, this command, NLT 2200 this date Hotel Dixie.
Jillian,
Act. Asst AGC
THE BOX XII
Smith’s Diary
They brought Lewisohn and nine of the people who went out on the mission four months ago to the edge of the clearing this morning just after dawn. Their hands were bound behind them, and they were in bad shape.
The Indians killed them by cutting their throats from behind, using their bodies for shields as they got back to cover.
We couldn’t do anything. Someone ripped off a clip, but that only made one of the Indians drop a soldier’s body.
The rest they took to cover. We don’t know what they did to them. Some of them were still thrashing and bleeding to death as they dragged them back into the woods.
At first light this morning, the body they had dropped was gone.
Everyone is in a silent rage, which is just what the Indians want.
I don’t want to write any more for a while.
Leake XII
‘But who knows the fate of his bones or how often he is to be buried? who hath the oracle of his ashes, or whither they are to be scattered?’
The messenger came into the village through the growing cornstalks, bringing the first written words I had seen in five months.
He carried a piece of papyrus in a split stick. Took had the messenger sit down, and Sunflower filled him up with fresh squirrel stew. He was from three villages upriver and was anxious to get back.
I opened the paper, but had to strain to figure out some of the writing. It was Greek but with flourishes; a few words I had to guess at.
Friend Yazoo, (it began)
We of the Trading Companions send you warm greetings. Business, the Prophet bless us, is better than ever.
We shall return downriver in less than a moon’s turning, and hope to see you then.
We ask you that you tell Sun Man and all your people to be on their guard. (Something) is unrest to the west of the River. The tiger-people (their name for the Huastecas, Took told me) have been seen more frequently than in the past, and are pursuing their (Flower Wars?) with much diligence.
Word has come that one of the villages to the east of the River at which we traded has much sickness there now, so we will not stop there on the way back.
Meanwhile, much care. Allah preserve us, and I hope I shall ride your fine horse again soon.
Yours in business,
el Hama
I thanked the runner. He wasn’t supposed to wait for an answer (the letter, he said, came from six days upriver from his village). I gave him one of my pipes, the best one I had made, with a catfish swallowing a frog. He thanked me and trotted away.
‘Let’s go talk to Sun Man,’ I said.
‘He’s getting ready for the Black Drink Ceremony,’ said Took. ‘He has to start fasting at sundown.’
We walked between the huts and mounds to the plaza.
‘By the way,’ said Took-His-Time. ‘Everybody’s been asking if you’re going to take part in the ceremony.’
I stopped and looked at him. ‘That would mean they consider me to be one of the warriors, wouldn’t it?’
‘Nobody else brought such fine heads back from the Flower War,’ said Took, shaking his head in sad recollection of my wasteful act at the creek.
‘What happens in the ceremony?’ I asked.
‘Well, the usual stuff first. Prayers to the harvest and the Woodpecker. Then all the warriors drink the Black Drink, and you shit and vomit for two or three days.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
‘Cleans out impure thoughts. Makes for a great harvest. I was sick for a week last year, but we sure ate good the early part of last winter, didn’t we?’
‘Why me?’