The Basingstoke Chronicles (12 page)

"That's right, those burns on the body were horrific!" I replied.

"So, let's pretend for a minute that we're in 1979," he continued. "Things occurring as
they would have before we became involved, one of these natives has to first encounter the time
machine, replace the original occupant, and then barely escape a fiery end. And seeing as there
doesn't appear to be a way of piloting the time machine, except through time, we can conclude
that this fellow knew the location of the vessel
before
the fire."

"Why's that?"

"Well, if he didn't move it in any way, three-dimensionally, then it would have to have
been where it is now--twenty or so feet beneath the sea, a hundred feet from shore. For him to
miraculously happen upon it, in so unlikely a spot, at such a crucial time, strains the bounds of
coincidence, don't you think?"

He was correct. The time machine's
occupant
was the riddle. How long before
his fiery escape had we arrived? When and where would the
original
time machine show
up, if it wasn't here already? What kind of fire would prompt an Apteronian to flee his sacred
island? These questions troubled me the more I thought.

One afternoon, as Pacal and I ate with Rodrigo and K'achita on my veranda--of the
apartment with maroon drapes--we felt a slight ground tremor. It lasted only a dozen seconds or
so, but was sufficient to relocate our wooden plates four inches across the floor.

"That's the third time this season," said Rodrigo, translating Pacal's enthusiastic words.
"It's a sign that The Land is content, according to the Kamachej."

Hogwash! I thought. There's nothing contented about an earthquake.

The four of us spent many afternoons together, resting from our morning exertions and
addressing our biggest hurdle, language. Among us, we had six from which to choose: Pacal and
K'achita were the resident Apteronians; Rodrigo was fluent in English and Spanish, added to
which he could lump Quechua and now this native tongue on his resume; my list of English,
Russian and French was inarguably the least useful.

As well as being a superb teacher, Rodrigo had the time of his life listening to us fumble
our way through his classes. The lessons took the form of role-plays. He would give us a series of
lines, along with the translations, for a scene that we would enact, once in English, once in
Apteronian, after we had learned them.

One time, the Cuban even adapted a scene from his favorite movie,
The
Godfather
. K'achita found it particularly hilarious when he insisted Pacal deliver his English
lines with two hunks of steak lodged inside his cheeks.

After four months of these afternoon linguistics, I was able to converse quite well in the
native tongue. Apteronian, like Quechua, is built around one's inflection of the language. For
instance, the verb for 'to know',
yachay
, is the same in almost all contexts, and the only
way to distinguish between them is in the delivery; to say "I know" requires no change in tone.
"He knows" requires a stress on the first syllable to make it masculine, or "she knows" a stress on
the second to make it feminine. If there is only one syllable to a verb, then simple hand gestures
separate its usages. For the past tense, a speaker lightens his voice at the end of the verb, in much
the same way as many languages turn a statement into a question. And those were only the
basics.

As a completely different challenge to anything I had attempted before, this new dialect
sparked a deep appreciation for this ancient culture. Without our twentieth century
absurdities--money, taxes, advertisements, traffic, pollution, corporate ambition--I truly felt like an offspring
of time travel, with a new identity. Here, I realized, a man could be whatever he wanted to be and
still maintain his vital link within the community. In 1979, the larger a town or city, the more
disconnected its inhabitants feel from one another. In Yaku, quite simply, everyone felt
essential.

"The stars of a galaxy are held together, and look at the beauty of that communion,"
observed Pacal late one evening as he, Puma and I sat on his veranda, sharing philosophies.

"I should have guessed that would be your explanation," replied Puma mockingly. "If my
father ever heard you comparing us to the heavens, those sweet concoctions of yours... Well, let
us just say you would soon be drinking bitter fruits, Pacal."

"I know that all too well," came the retort.

Puma fell silent, aware that his words had trodden on sensitive ground.

"What do you both mean?" I asked.

"We mean always to remain loyal to one another, in spite of our fathers," said Pacal.

This cryptic answer intrigued me, and that each now avoided eye contact with the
other.

It seems we each have our secrets,
I thought.

"Lord," said Puma, "tell me, if you will, all that you have learned of us since your
arrival, insofar as your understanding of our beliefs. Please answer honestly. I promise we shall
not be offended."

Wary though I was in the presence of the Kamachej's son, I saw this as an excellent
opportunity to gain his confidence. He stroked his grimy, copper-colored hair against the base of
his skull, flared his nostrils in anticipation. His features were youthful but stern, while his pomp
receded in the shadow across his moonlit face.

"My understanding is that The Land governs your beliefs, and everything here owes
itself to natural balance. Much like with certain peoples on other parts of the earth, there is a
mutual respect here between man and the patterns of nature. You seem content to remain as you
are, and to not travel beyond your land." I spoke with enthusiasm. "On my first day here, Pacal
told me that some among you have a deep distrust of foreign lands and peoples. I also perceived
this in the eyes of those who gathered to observe my arrival with the bear.

"Yet your father, Puma, asked me some puzzling questions. And I have to admit that
you, Pacal, strike me as anything but provincial. Between your interest of the stars and Vichama
Supay's questions along similar lines, I am not convinced that everyone here shares a singular,
common belief. There seems to be a great deal left unsaid; at least, that is what I have
perceived."

"Then how perceptive you are," said Puma, leaning toward me. "Pacal tells me that
neither you or your companion have sought to leave Yaku, even to hunt. I am glad. For what it is
worth, I told my father that he need not have any further suspicions of you."

"What cause has he to suspect me at all?"

"You came from the horizon," replied Pacal.

"So does the sun, if you want to get technical," I quipped, forgetting that my friend was
not your average gullible yokel.

"Right you are," he agreed, to my astonishment, "as does the wind and the moon and the
all the stars of the sky. Why you are in exalted company, Lord."

If he had not smirked as he spoke my name, I might have taken him for the worst
astronomer of all time. That sly sarcasm, though, reminded me why I liked him so much. In his
own way, Pacal Votan was every bit the rogue Rodrigo was. However, the cause of the friction
between him and Puma remained undisclosed.

"Were you not about to tell me of your two fathers?"

Puma answered in a soft, almost apologetic voice, "I would be grateful if you could tell
the story, Pacal. Yours is the version with the fewest distortions."

"There really is not much to tell, Lord, other than of the bitter extremes that arise among
us from time to time. You have already deduced the rift in our beliefs; let me now explain the
animus that boils beneath the harmony on Apterona."

"Apterona? Why do you insist on using that meaningless name?" interrupted Puma,
rather rudely.

"Because I have that right. And in any case, there is nothing more meaningless than
calling it
The Land
! I can only imagine how primitive we must sound to Lord and
Rodrigo when we say that. Now, if you will permit me, I have a tale to tell."

Puma receded into the shadows once again as he leant back.

"Without telling the history," Pacal began, "the respective beliefs of our two fathers are
difficult to address, Lord. Long ago, the poor wretches we call our ancestors began to learn
beyond their instincts. Weapons and tools replaced cunning, and a dominance arose in
humankind. But this did not occur over generations, as you might expect. Rather, the change was
a sudden one, a spark that sired a hundred generations of ingenuity. No one really knows how or
why. Fantastical claims have been made ever since, evolving, as all ideas of origin eventually do,
into a powerful religion. That religion attributes our great progress to the guidance of the gods
themselves, whose arrival on The Land precipitated our human enlightenment. It is said that the
ground where the gods landed lies many miles to the east, and is both sacred and forbidden for
man to tread.

"Therein lies the crux of our ancient divide on Apterona. A river of belief diverging, if
you will, to answer the question of why the gods would impart to us this great intelligence. Many
believe that we were chosen, above all other men and beasts of the world, to create a mortal
paradise in honor of their immortal place in the sky. In other words, we are a blessed people, not
meant to suffer the contaminants of foreign lands. Hence, the distrust you met on you
arrival."

"But
you
welcomed me with open arms."

"I did, which leads me to the second interpretation of our history, my friend. There are
those of us with a great desire to explore. We see those religious beliefs, and indeed Apterona
itself, as extensions of our own ancient fears. It is time to overcome them. As you have sailed the
ocean to find us, I too desire to search for other lands and peoples. Such a yearning stretches back
to the ancients, but the power to stifle progress has always resided with religious chiefs. The line
of the Kamachej has ensured our obedience, for none has ever sailed from these shores and
lived.

"My father was the last to try. The vessel he carved in secret never made it beyond a
stone's throw from land. A dozen of Vichama Supay's guards were seen on the western beach
shortly before his boat drifted back to shore, empty. My father was never found. Puma Pawq'ar
swears
his
father never gave such an order but, in my mind, the murder is consistent
with the legacies of all the Kamachej gone before.

"The unwritten edict is simple: none are permitted to leave, whatever the cost. So as you
can see, my foreign friend, a miscreant such as yourself is allowed to live only for one reason:
curiosity about your foreign ways. Vichama Supay's questions in the palace were carefully
chosen for this end. Puma reports regularly to his father, especially in regards you and your
conduct. This way, if there are more of your kind to come, he will at least be prepared in some
way."

He stopped there, deep in thought. Shadow drew out like a blade on the veranda. Clouds
massed overhead, swallowing the eerie swab of moonlight about us. I was sure of only two
things: fell weather was approaching, and Pacal Votan had just spoken a great treason.

Puma rose to his feet and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. They were closer than I
had realized. Indeed, the prince's conciliatory gesture was a riddle to me. Was he, the only son of
the Kamachej, sympathetic to these non-believers? Was this rebellious element more widespread
than I had perceived? If so, would there be more attempts to leave Apterona?

The fate of Pacal's father preyed on my mind, also. His mysterious disappearance
appeared to tally with the puzzle of the time machine. Might he have escaped his pursuers by
diving underwater, to find the vessel cloaked on the sea bed? But the time-traveler had come to a
fiery end, and
we
had arrived
after
his disappearance, not before it.

"We had better get inside," said Puma, holding out his hands to test the night air.

We felt the first drops of warm rain, and quickly made our way indoors. Within a few
minutes, Yaku was under siege from a ferocious downpour.

I barely slept that night. Thoughts of this ancient culture splitting itself in two echoed the
thunderous monsoon outside. The stone apartment was watertight, however. Built to stand above
the flooding, its raised veranda now made perfect sense.

I did not see the effects of the storm until the next morning.

I opened my door to a grim, grey dawn. A shoal of muddy water covered the great
ellipse in the centre of the village. From what I could see, the whole of Yaku was awash: the
gradual drift of this new lagoon carried boxes, benches, wooden casks, and even a few skinned
animals downstream. This flooding overflowed the river channel to a dangerous level.
Neighboring families gathered at their doors, regaling one another in surprisingly high spirits as
they watched the waters recede. Indeed, all we could do was wait.

Pacal crossed the promenade between our homes with a spring in his step. He joked with
his neighbors as he passed them, and when he reached me, the first thing he said was, "A new
season, Lord, and a new time."

He then glanced around to make sure we were alone, and dipped his voice to a
whisper. "Care for a boat ride tonight?"

Equal parts bemused and intrigued, I replied, "Of course."

"Good then! Puma will accompany us, as soon as he returns after nightfall. I promise
your curiosity will not go unsatisfied."

Across the ellipse, I spied Rodrigo and K'achita opening their door to the new season. As
they reached the water's edge, they waved to us. The next thing I saw was Rodrigo tumble
headlong into the flood; K'achita twirled and strutted away, victorious.

Pacal laughed. "That's one way to celebrate!"

"Here's another," I replied, launching him from his feet into the muddy flow, and
laughing as he struggled to his feet. "As you can see, the tide waits for no man!"