The Runestone Incident (The Incident Series, #2) (16 page)

The coffee was delicious. That wasn’t it. I felt a shiver pass through me. “I don’t even like the thought of it. It makes me glad I’m up to date on all my vaccines.”

Perhaps Mary sensed that there was more to it than that. She topped off my coffee and said, “Land claims aside, we are all immigrants, you know, all of us. The world is a fluid place and Nate is living proof of that. You should bring Julia to one of our family picnics, Nate dear.” She smiled at him, then continued, “Why, my neighbors down the street are from Somalia. That’s the largest immigrant group to Minnesota these days, with Ethiopians being the second—did you know that? Nate’s grandfather Duncan came over as a child from Scotland back in 1935. At the turn of the century, Scandinavians and Germans were the largest immigrant groups.”

“My great-grandparents came on a ship from Norway,” I said.

“Here’s a statistic to keep in mind about the nineteenth century, about your great-grandparents, about the farmer who found the stone. In 1850, Minnesota had about six
thousand
souls, at least according to the census. By the turn of the
century
—just fifty years later—the number was 1.75 million. There wasn’t a gold rush or anything to make that happen—far from it. The newcomers wanted a better life and were willing to work hard for it.”

“Still,” I said. “They displaced people who were already here.”

“Yes. For some of us…well, our roots go all the way down to the bedrock. Thousands of years ago, my own ancestors crossed a land bridge that formed when water froze into ice sheets and the ocean levels fell. Fifty miles as the crow flies separates Asia from Alaska. Put that way it doesn’t sound like a very long distance, does it? My point is this—” She leaned forward and patted my hand. “We—all of us—stand on the shoulders of our parents, and they on the shoulders of theirs, and so on.”

I caught myself wondering if we at St. Sunniva University had been guilty of bias in our explorations of history. Early on, it had been decided that STEWie could never be used to settle the “big” questions anyway, such as which people had a more valid claim to a certain territory, or which side had fired the first shot that started the battle that started the war. There was no way to correct historical wrongs. Still, I felt embarrassed that I had come to ask Mary about a stone that had been carved by newcomers (whether it had happened in the nineteenth or fourte
enth cent
ury), when her own ancestors had made a life on this land for thousands of years.

We were entering our third year of STEWie runs, and most of the slots had been devoted to researching the figures that anchored history books, which was how it went with funding priorities and public interest. STEWie had been the brainchild of the science departments, so a significant number of runs had been devoted to those on whose shoulders the current crop of scientists stood, legends like Marie Curie. Clandestine visits to her lab and home—starting in the 1890s, the decade when farmer Olof Ohman had found his stone—required radiation suits. The radiation on her papers and personal things still lingered into the present. It was all circular, in a way. We already knew more about Europe’s past than that of the Americas, so it was easier for our researchers to prepare for runs to the Old World and obey time travel’s third rule,
Blend in
. Places and
peoples
that had been lost to time and textbooks were a lot harder to tackle.

I took a sip of Mary’s rich, aromatic coffee; the one that Nate had given me in his office was just a pale, distant cousin to it. I had been worried that Mary might not welcome the idea of people sneaking a look at her ancestors, that it was disrespectful on some level. But it sounded like she felt just the opposite about it, that it might be good to know more.

Mary stood up to take our dishes to the sink.

“You should drop by and talk to Dr. Payne sometime,” I said, rising to my feet to help her. “He’s a bit—well, grumpy—but I think you might agree on a lot of things.”

When Nate took Wanda outside into the yard to let her stretch her legs, Mary refilled my coffee cup. “Are you two kids dating?” she asked abruptly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nate didn’t explain one way or the other over the phone, but I’ve known him all his life. Sometimes his silences speak volumes.”

“We’re just colleagues,” I evaded, “collaborating on this incident at the school. As the science dean’s assistant, I help out when a problem arises in one of our eight science departments. And my ex taking STEWie on a joyride, well, it’s definitely a problem.”

“Spouses will do that. Embarrassing things, I mean.”

“Usually not
this
embarrassing.”

“Duncan and I were married for fifty-four years. A lot can happen over that much time, most of it good, once in a while bad, sometimes just strange. Nate has always been a bit hard to read,” she added in somewhat of a non sequitur. “Did he tell you about what happened at Boundary Waters and why he left?”

I nodded.

“He hasn’t gotten over it yet. I think it’s made his already cautious nature even more cautious. Well, you’re young, both of you. I will tell you one thing: At your age, I wouldn’t have let a little thing like an estranged husband on the lam stop me. Life’s an adventure. Do you and Quinn have any children?”

I shook my head. “I’m not the motherly type. I can’t even keep a potted cactus alive. And Quinn—well, he’s not a homebody either.”

“Not everyone is cut out for it, I suppose.”

“Thanks for not saying the opposite.”

“Which?”

“That once I hold my own offspring in my arms I’ll suddenly discover some hidden, primal Julia who knows exactly what to do about poopy diapers and runny noses. I wouldn’t. I’m much better with them once they’re young adults. I feel like the students in the science departments are all mine to take care of, in a way.”

“And Nate keeps peace and order on campus. Yes, I see.”

Wondering what it was she saw, I leaned forward on my elbows, the coffee cup between them. All I could see was that my life was in a bit of a muddle. I wondered if she—and Nate—thought that I still had feelings for Quinn. It wasn’t black and white. Very few things in life were. I certainly didn’t love Quinn anymore, but I didn’t hate him either…and I didn’t want to. Hate was a feeling that weighed you down, making it harder to walk through life. It was like being time-stuck in History.

When Nate came back inside, he asked his grandmother the question that had brought us here. “Kunshi, the runestone…Real or not?”

Smiling at him, she considered the question. “The Minnesota Historical Society did offer an opinion, a favorable one, back in 1910, you know. As for me—I think I’d prefer to give the man who found it the benefit of the doubt.”

“Olof Ohman,” I supplied.

“Olof Ohman, that’s right. I figure it’s like being on a jury. We have to assume Olof was innocent until he’s proven guilty.”

“That’s not how it is in academia,” I said, conscious of sounding like Dr. Payne. “The burden of proof is on the presenter of new evidence, especially if the claim is an extraordinary one.”

“I know. That’s why I never went for a higher degree. Too confining, I felt. As for the stone—there is an account in Dakota history. I may not be the best person to tell it, but I know a couple of people who are…If you need someone knowledgeable to come along with you to the fourteenth century, they fit the bill. They know a lot about a lot of things. You’ll like Ron. And Ruth-Ann, well, she’s a younger version of me. Make sure to ask her about the Good Earth Woman’s story.”

I already had my yellow pad out. “The Good Earth Woman…Ron and Ruth-Ann, you said?”

“Ron and Ruth-Ann Tuttle. They can be a bit hard to reach, but let me get you their number.”

16

The names of the wife and husband pair who had been recommended by Nate’s grandmother sounded familiar—I remembered leafing through their book in the library. Ruth-Ann and Ron Tuttle were amateur historians and archeologists. Their book had been sandwiched between a thick tome whose flowery academic prose I couldn’t tolerate for more than a few pages and another that I also put back immediately, though for different reasons. (It claimed to offer proof that aliens built the pyramids of Egypt and Mesoamerica. This was a theory that showed up often in emails and letters sent to the dean’s office; any evidence to the contrary brought back from STEWie runs in the form of photos or footage was deemed fake.) The Tuttles’ privately published book occupied the sweet spot between academic tome and conspiracy fluff in its content as well. I had found it very readable. They seemed to be the all-around experts in everything runestone-related.

Once I got back to my office, I called the number Mary had given me but the line had been disconnected. Mary had also mentioned a website, so I looked there and sent an email to the address listed, hoping that wherever they were they had access to a computer. I lingered on the website after sending off the email. It seemed to have a bit of everything—there were pages devoted to Native American petroglyphs as well as a section on the Kensington runestone and other finds of possible Norse origin. Like their book,
Runestone: Rock Solid,
the website had maps of potential Norse routes inland and copies of documents, including the letter written in Olof Ohman’s own hand. One thing had me scratching my head. Neither the book nor the website gave the authors’ opinions of the stone’s provenance. The “Rock Solid” part of the title appeared to refer to the
natural
hardness of graywacke, not the preponderance of evidence in favor of the runestone’s legitimacy. I wondered what the Tuttles would make of the footage we had taken of the farmer unearthing the stone.

I hoped they’d get back to me before Friday’s run.

In the meantime, I went to talk to Dr. Payne. I found him in the courtyard of the History building. He was sitting on a bench with his back to the lake, grading papers on one knee and enjoying a cigarette.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Dr. Payne. I came to ask—thanks.” He had made room for me on the bench. “I came to ask if you wanted to come along with us to 1362.”

I hoped he would say no. The thought of spending a few days essentially camping with the chain-smoking professor did not appeal to me. Still, I felt that the dean’s office had to extend the invitation since the Americas were his playground, research-wise, even though he had voted against the run.

The idea of bringing him along hadn’t appealed to Nate either. When we discussed it on the drive back from his
grandmother’s
house, he had said, “I’m not sure he’s physically fit enough. We don’t know how much walking we’ll have to do. There’ll be backpacks to carry. And if it takes a while or we get time-stuck, we might have to hunt for food—”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Buffalo, elk, deer, beaver, otter, whatever we can find.”

“Ugh. Aren’t you a parks person? Can’t we just fish? I think I can handle fish.”

“Nothing wrong with hunting if you follow the park rules. But no, I wasn’t serious. We’ll bring along freeze-dried meals and energy bars. Though if we really wanted to blend into the era, we would have to do just that—hunt and fish and pick berries and so on.”

“Well, then I’m happy that we have no hope of blending in. I don’t mind roughing it, but I draw a line at shooting animals.”

“But fish would be okay?”

“Yes. They’re cold and slippery.”

Dr. Payne puffed on his cigarette and answered my question about
whether he wanted to come along with a single syllable. “No.”

“Why not?” I felt compelled to ask. “You don’t think we have a hope of finding them?”

“It’s not that. I’ve already wasted enough time on this, time I should be spending on my own work. Yes, I know that a week in the fourteenth century would amount to only an afternoon here, but it’s a week in
my
lifetime, and I don’t feel like I have that many left.” He took a deep drag off the cigarette with no apparent sense of irony. “Besides, why do you need me to come along?”

“The Americas—”

“Are two big continents whose history spans thousands of years. You need an expert whose interests are specific to that time period and area. Someone who is, shall we say…as
obsessed
with the runestone as your Mr. Olsen.”

“I have contacted someone, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, there you go. And I suppose what you bring to the table is your expertise on Quinn.”

I decided not to take offense.

He went on, “Who’s paying for all the runs we did to 1898 and this final one? And whose roster spot are you going to take?”

“Chancellor Evans assured Dean Braga that the school will cover expenses, within reason. One of our postdocs is missing, after all.”

He didn’t deem that worthy of comment.

“Dr. Payne? Do you think we should get the Black Death vaccine before we go?”

“You’re unlikely to catch anything from fourteenth-century Native Americans, and certainly not the bubonic plague.”

The converse—us passing on a European disease—was impossible because of History’s constraints. Neither were what I was worried about. “There’s a theory that the Black Death
carried
on their own clothing or effects killed the ten Norsemen.”

“Ah.
That
theory. Well, I would ask Dr. May about it, but I believe that the vaccine is a multi-dose one, administered during the course of a few weeks. I suppose you could get the first dose. In any case, antibiotics will come to the rescue if you come back covered in boils.”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious or if he was making fun of the Black Death theory. I got to my feet. “The fourteenth century—any advice, professor?”

I meant in terms of bringing items like bug spray or night vision goggles, but he stabbed out the cigarette on the bench and said, “Bring me back photos. Of everything you see.”

The phone rang on Wednesday afternoon while I was dealing with a stack of conference travel receipts. “Science Dean’s offices, Julia Olsen speaking, how can I help you?”

A hearty female voice said, “You’re the person I’m looking for. That is, if you’re the one who sent a message to the authors of
Runestone: Rock Solid
?”

I admitted as much.

“That’d be me and Ron. Did you enjoy the book?”

I admitted that I had, and she asked, “Did you want Ron and me to come in and sign some copies? We also do workshops where we teach the lost art of runic carving. It’s best for ages ten and up, what with the possibility of injury from the chisel—”

“It’s nothing like that,” I interrupted her, deciding to return her forthrightness by being forthright myself. “Care to come along to the fourteenth century?”

“I’m sorry, where did you say you worked?”

“St. Sunniva University. I’m the assistant to the science dean. There’s an ongoing matter in the Time Travel Engineering department on which we could use your help and expertise.”

She gave a throaty peal of delight. “The Time Machine is real? Ron will be pleased. We thought it was, but you never can tell with the media. All those photos of British coronations and footage of Elvis concerts, it was hard to tell if the whole thing was just a big hoax.”

I cringed. The footage that made it into the news wasn’t exactly representative of what we were trying to accomplish with STEWie.

“It’s real enough. If you do decide to come with us…well, I should let you know that there’s probably an element of danger involved.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, it is time travel. I wouldn’t expect it to be a walk in the park.”

“It’s not just the time travel part of it—we have a situation on our hands. How soon can you be here? It would be more prudent to discuss the details in person.”

“Would the morning suit you? That will give us time to finish up here and drive up.”

Then she asked me a long list questions. All were insightful, and some raised important issues that I hadn’t thought of myself. I hung up the phone thinking that our amateur enthusiasts might turn out to be more helpful than I had anticipated.

I watched as a white recreational vehicle twice the length of a car and with an overhang above the cab pulled into the campus parking lot. The RV body was plastered with informational ads regarding the Tuttles’ books and workshops. I had come out to meet them since first-time visitors tended to find the campus’s circular layout confusing. Two chunky, smiling figures descended the three steps of the RV into the crisp mid-September morning and greeted me. They had left before sunrise to take the
two-ho
ur drive north to St. Sunniva University.

Ruth-Ann gave me a bear hug—she smelled of lavender shampoo and freshly baked pastries—and said, “Thanks for inviting us, hon. The campus looks lovely. Want a tour of our abode? C’mon in.”

As we all filed back into the RV, she explained that she and her husband took turns driving and that the kitchen/living area expanded at the touch of a button. She proceeded to demonstrate. The RV was now their home, she said. “We sold the business and the house and bought the bus so that we could drive to sites and stay as long as we like.” They earned money from selling books, teaching workshops, and accepting donations from historically minded citizens, she said, adding that I had reached them at the Jeffers Petroglyphs site, where they had spent the past month researching a new book about pre-Contact Native American petroglyphs.

“We like painted and carved rocks,” Ron said from behind me, the first sentence I’d heard him speak other than
Hello
. Ron’s light-brown beard was braided into three sections, giving him somewhat of a Viking look. It had colorful beads woven into it. He was wearing a lime-green T-shirt, worn jeans, and hiking boots.

“Want an orange juice and something to eat, hon? I just pulled some muffins out of the oven.” Ruth-Ann lifted the foil off a plate. Blueberry. She reached for a napkin and placed a muffin on it for me. She, too, was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a T-shirt. Hers was a pale pink.

We ate the muffins standing, since the table seemed to serve as more of an office than an eating area; the reference books, petroglyph sketches, and photos that covered it had spread to the couch, the main seating option. A half-finished sketch of a turtle from the Jeffers site caught my eye. Ruth-Ann explained that Ron was the one with the artistic talent and that before turning their hand to amateur archeology they had run an interior decorating business—she had done the books, he the
decorating
—which explained the pleasing hues of the interior of the RV, reds and blues that complimented the steel frame of the vehicle.