Anderson, Poul - The Boat of a Million Years

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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious,

and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS

A TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 49 West 24 Street New York, NY 10010

ISBN: 0-812-50270-1 CIP: 89-39879

First edition: November 1989

First mass market edition: January 1991

Printed in the United States of America 0987654321

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Chapter HI, "The Comrade," has appeared in Analog Science Fiction!Science Fact, June 1988.

Chapter V, "No Man May Shun His Doom," does homage to the late Johannes V. Jensen.

Karen Anderson prepared the epigraph, slightly modifying her translation at my request, and as

scholar and critic was invaluable throughout.

The "CCCP" is due to George W. Price.

For other kinds of hglp I also thank John Anderson, Victor Fernandez-Davila, and David HartweH.

G. C. and Carmen Edmondson Salud, amor, ttinero y tiempo para gustarlos.

I I I

ill

May he go forth in the sunrise boat, May he come to port in the sunset boat, May he go among the

imperishable stars, May he journey hi the Boat of a Million Years.

—The Book of Going Forth by Daylight

(Theban recension, ca. 18th Dynasty)

Thule

"To SAIL beyond the world—"

Hanno's voice faded away. Pytheas looked sharply at him. Against the plain, whitewashed room where

they sat, the Phoenician seemed vivid, like a flash of sunlight from outside. It might only be due

to the brightness of eyes and teeth or a skin tan even in winter. Otherwise he was ordinary,

slender and supple but of medium height, features aquiline, hair and neatly trimmed beard a crow's-

wing black. He wore an unadorned tunic, scuffed sandals, a single gold finger ring.

"You cannot mean that," said the Greek.

Hanno came out of reverie, shook himself, laughed. "Oh, no. A trope, of course. Though it would be

well to make sure beforehand that enough of your men do believe we live on a sphere. They'll have

ample terrors and troubles without fearing a plunge off the edge into some abyss."

"You sound educated," said Pytheas slowly.

"Should I not? I have traveled, but also studied. And you, sir, a learned man, a philosopher,

propose to voyage into the sheerly unknown. You actually hope to come back." Hanno picked a goblet

off the small table between them and sipped of the tempered wine that a slave had brought.

Pytheas shifted on his stool. A charcoal brazier had made the room close as well as warm. His

lungs longed for a breath of clean air. "Not altogether unknown," he said, "Your people go that

far. Lykias told me you claim to have been there yourself."

2 Poul Anderson

Hanno sobered. "I told him the truth. I've journeyed that way more than once, both overland and by

sea. But so much of it is wilderness, so much else is changing these days, in ways unforeseeable

but usually violent. And the Carthaginians are interested just in the tin, with whatever other

things they can pick up incidental to that. They only touch on the southern end of the Pretanic

Isles. The rest is outside their ken, or any civilized man's."

"And yet you desire to come with me."

Hanno in his turn studied his host before replying. Pytheas too was simply clad. He was tall for a

Greek, lean, features sharp beneath a high forehead, clean-shaven, with a few deep lines. Curly

brown hair showed frost at the temples. His eyes were gray. The directness of their glance bespoke

impeiiousness, or innocence, or perhaps both.

"I think I do," said Hanno carefully. "We shall have to talk further. However, in my fashion, like

you in yours, I want to learn as much as I can about this earth and its peoples while I am still

above it. When your man Lykias went about the city inquiring after possible advisors, and I heard,

I was happy to seek him out." Again he grinned. "Also, I am in present need of employment. There

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ought to be a goodly profit in this."

"We are not going as traders," Pytheas explained. "Well have wares along, but to exchange for what

we need rather than to get wealthy. We are, though, pledged excellent pay on our return."

"I gather the city is not sponsoring the venture?"

"Correct. A consortium of merchants is. They want to know the chances and costs of a sea route to

the far North, now that the Gauls are making the land dangerous. Not tin alone, you understand—tin

may be the least of it—but amber, furs, slaves, whatever those countries offer."

"The Gauls indeed." Nothing else need be said. They had poured over the mountains to make the

nearer part of Italy theirs; a long lifetime ago war chariots rumbled, swords flashed, homes

blazed, wolves and ravens feasted across Europe. Hanno did add: "I have some acquaintance with

them. That should help. Be warned, the prospects of such a route are poor. Besides them, the

Carthaginians."

"I know."

THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS 3

Hanno cocked his head. "Nevertheless, you are organizing this expedition."

"To follow knowledge," Pytheas answered quietly. "I am fortunate in that two of the sponsors are .

. . more intelligent than most. They value understanding for its own sake."

"Knowledge has a trick of paying off in unexpected ways." Hanno smiled. "Forgive me. I'm a crass

Phoenician. You're a man of consequence in public affairs—inherited money, I've heard—but first

and foremost a philosopher. You need a navigator at sea, a guide and interpreter ashore. I believe

I am the one for you."

Pytheas' tone sharpened. "What are you doing in Massalia? Why are you prepared to aid something

that is . . . not in the interests of Carthage?"

Hanno turned serious. "I am no traitor, for I am not a Carthaginian. True, I've lived in the city,

among many different places. But I'm not overly fond of it. They're too puritanical there, too

little touched by any grace of Greece or Persia; and their human sacrifices—" He grimaced, then

shrugged. "To sit in judgment on what people do is a fool's game. They'll continue doing it

regardless. As for me, I'm from Old Phoenicia, the East. Alexandras destroyed Tyre, and the civil

wars after his death have left that part of the world in sorry shape. I seek my fortune where I

can. I'm a wanderer by nature anyway."

"I shall have to get better acquainted with you," Pytheas said, blunter than he was wont. Did he

already feel at ease with this stranger?

"Certainly." Again Hanno's manner grew cheerful. "I've thought how to prove my skills to you. In a

short time. You realize the need to embark soon, don't you? Preferably at the start of sailing

season."

"Because of Carthage?"

Hanno nodded. "This new war in Sicily will engage her whole attention for a while. Agathokles of

Syracuse is a harder enemy than the Carthaginian suffetes have taken the trouble to discover. I

wouldn't be surprised if he carries the fight to their shores."

Pytheas stared. "How can you be so sure?"

"I was lately there, and I've learned to pay attention. In

4 Poul Anderson

Carthage too. You're aware she discourages all foreign traffic beyond the Pillars of

Herakles—often by methods that would be called piracy were it the work of a private party. Well,

the suffetes now speak of an out-and-out blockade. If they win this war, or at least fight it to a

draw, I suspect they'll lack the resources for some time afterward; but eventually they'll do it.

Your expedition will take a pair of years at least, likelier three, very possibly more. The

earlier you set forth, the earlier you'll come home—if you do—and not run into a Carthaginian

patrol. What a shame, after an od-yssey like that, to end at the bottom of the sea or on an

auction block."

"We'll have an escort of warships." Hanno shook his head. "Oh, no. Anything less than a

penteconter would be useless, and that long hull would never survive the North Atlantic. My

friend, you haven't seen waves or storms till you've been yonder. Also, how do you carry food and

water for all those rowers? They burn it like wildfire, you know, and resupplying will be chancy

at best. My namesake could explore the African coasts in galleys, but he was southbound. You'll

need sail. Let me counsel you on what ships to buy."

"You claim a great many proficiencies," Pytheas murmured.

"I have been through a great many schools," Hanno replied.

They talked onward for an hour, and agreed to meet again on the following day. Pytheas escorted

his visitor out. They stopped for a moment at the front door.

The house stood high on a ridge above the bay. Eastward, beyond city walls, hills glowed with

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sunset. The streets of the old Greek colony had become rivers of shadow. Voices, footfalls, wheels

were muted; the air rested in chilly peace. Westward the sun cast a bridge across the waters.

Masts in the harbor stood stark against it. Gulls cruising overhead caught the light on then-

wings, gold beneath blue.

"A lovely sight," Pytheas said low. "This coast must be the most beautiful in the world."

Hanno parted his tips as if to tell about others he had seen, closed them, said finally: "Let us

try to bring you back here, then. It won't be easy."

THREE VESSELS fared by moonlight. Their masters dared not put in at Gadeira or any part of

Tartessos—Carthaginian territory—and kept the sea after dark. The crews muttered; but night

sailing was not unheard of on familiar lanes, and to be out in the very Ocean was a strangeness

overwhelming all else.

The craft were alike, so they could more readily travel in convoy. Each was a merchantman, though

her principal cargo was well-armed men and their supplies. Narrower in the beam man most of its

kind, the black hull swept some hundred feet from the high stern, where the twin steering oars

were and a swan's head ornament reared, to the cutwater at the prow. A mast amidships carried a

large square sail and a triangular topsail. Forward of it stood a small deckhouse, aft of it lay

two rowboats, for towing her at need or saving lives in the worst need. She could get perhaps

eighty degrees off the wind, slowly and awkwardly; nimbler rigs existed, but drew less well.

Tonight, with a favoring breeze, she made about five knots.

Hanno came forth. The cabin, which the officers shared, was confining for a person of his habits.

Often he slept on deck, together with such of the crew as found the spaces below too cramped and

smelly. Several of them rested blanket-wrapped on straw ticks along the bulwarks. Moon-tight

turned planks hoar, cross-barred with long unrestful shadows. Air blew cold, and Hanno drew his

chlamys close about him. The wind lulled above whoosh of waves, creak of timbers and tackle. The

ship rocked gently, making muscles flex in a dance with her.

A figure stood at the starboard rail, near the forward lookout. Hanno recognized Pytheas' profile

against quicksilver moonglade and went to join him. "Rejoice," he greeted. "You can't sleep

either?"

"I hoped to make observations," the Greek replied. "Nights this clear will be few for us, won't

they?" ' Hanno looked outward. Brightnesses rippled, sheened, sparked over the water. Foam swirled

ghostly. Lanterns hung from the yard scarcely touched his vision, though he saw their counterparts

glimmer and sway on the companion

6 Poul Anderson

ships. Across a distance hard to gauge in this moving mingling of light and night, a vague mass

lifted, Iberia. "We've been lucky thus far in the weather," Hanno said. He gestured at the

goniometer in Pytheas' hand. "But is that thing of any use here?"

"It would be much more accurate ashore. If only we could— Well, doubtless Til find better

opportunities later, the Bears will be higher in the sky."

Hanno glanced at those constellations. They had dimmed as the moon climbed. "What are you trying

to measure?"

"I want to locate the north celestial pole more exactly man has hitherto been done." Pytheas

pointed. "Do you see how the two brightest stars in the Lesser Bear, with the first star in the

tail, form three corners of a quadrangle? The pole is the fourth. Or so they say."

"I know. I am your navigator."

"I beg your pardon. I forgot for a moment. Too absorbed." Pytheas chuckled ruefully, then grew

eager. "If this rule of thumb can be refined, you appreciate what a help that will give seamen.

Still more will it mean to geographers and cosmographers. Since the gods have not seen fit to

place a star just at the pole, or even especially dose, we must make do as best we are able."

"There have been such stars in the past," Hanno said. "There will be again in the future."

"What?" Pytheas stared at him through the phantom radiance. "Do you mean die heavens change?"

"Over centuries." Hanno's hand made a chopping motion. "Forget it. Like you, I spoke without

thinking. I don't expect you to believe me. Call it a sailor's tall tale."

Pytheas stroked his chin. "As a matter of fact," he said, low and slow, "a correspondent of mine

in Alexandria, at its great library, has mentioned that ancient records give certain intimations.

... It requires deeper study. But you, Hanno—"

The Phoenician formed a disarming grin. "Perhaps I make lucky guesses once in a while."

"You are ... unique in several respects. You've actually told me very tittle about yourself. Is

'Hanno' the name you were born with?"

"It serves."

THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS 7

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"You seem without home, family, ties of any kind." Impulsively: "I hate to think of you as lonely

and defenseless."

"Thank you, but I need no sympathy." Hanno mildened his manner. "You judge me by yourself. Are you

already homesick?"

"Not really. Not on this quest that I've dreamt of for years." The Greek paused. "But I do have

roots, wife, children. My oldest son is married. He should have grandchildren for me when I

return." With a smile: "My oldest daughter is now marriageable. I left arrangements for her ia my

brother's hands, with my wife's advice and consent. Yes, my little Danae too, she may well have a

tittle one of her own by that time." He shook himself, as if the wind had touched him with cold.

"It won't do to yearn. Well be long gone at best."

Hanno shrugged. "And meanwhile, I've found, barbarian women are usually easy."

Pytheas regarded him for a silent spell and said nothing about youths already available. Whatever

Hanno's tastes ought be, he didn't expect the Phoenician would become intimate with any member of

the expedition. Behind that genial front of his, how much humanity was in him?

ALL AT once, tike a blow to the belly, there the Keltoi were. A dozen tall warriors sprang from

the forest and started across the grassy slope to the beach, a score, a hundred, two hundred or

worse. More swarmed onto the twin headlands sheltering the cove where the ships had anchored.

Mariners yelled, dropped their work of preparing camp, snatched for their weapons, milled about.

Soldiers among them, hoptites and peltasts, most still armored, pushed through the chaos to take

formation. Helmets, breastplates, shields, swords, pike heads shimmered dully in a thin rain.

Hanno ran to their captain, Demetrios, caught him by the wrist, and snapped, "Don't initiate

hostilities. They'd love to take our heads home. Battle trophies."

The hard visage fleered. "Do you suppose if we stay peaceful, they'll embrace us?"

"That depends." Hanno squinted into the dimness before

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THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS

him. The hidden sun at his back had to be near the horizon. Trees made a gray wall behind the

oncoming attackers. War cries went saw-edged over the boom of surf outside the little bay, echoed

from cliff to cliff, sent gulls shrieking aloft. "Someone spied us, maybe days ago; sent word to

his fellow clansmen; they followed our course, with the woods for a screen; they expected we'd

camp at one of the places where the Carthaginians do—we'd see the burnt wood, rubbish, traces, and

head in—" He was thinking aloud.

"Why didn't they wait till we were asleep, except for our sentries?"

"They must be afraid of the dark. This can't be their country. And so—Hold fast. Give me—I should

have a peeled wand or a green bough, but this may suffice." Hanno turned about and tugged at the

standard. Its bearer clung and cursed him,

"Make him give me this, Demetrios!" Hanno demanded.

The mercenary leader hesitated an instant before he ordered, "Let go, Kleanthes."

"Good. Now blow trumpets, bang on shields, raise all the noise you can, but stay where you are."

The emblem aloft, Hanno advanced. He moved slowly, gravely, staff in right hand, naked sword in

left. At his rear, brass brayed and iron thundered.

The Carthaginians had cleared away high growth as far as the spring where they got water, a

distance of about an Athenian stadion. New brush sprang up to hinder passage and make it noisy.

Thus total surprise was impossible, and the Gauls were not yet hi that headlong dash which

civilized men dreaded. They trotted forward as individuals or small groups, disorderly and deadly.

They were big, fair-complexioned men. Most flaunted long mustaches; none had shaved lately. Those

that did not braid their hair had treated it with a material that reddened it and stiffened it

into spikes. Paint and tattoos adorned bodies sometimes naked, oftener wrapped in a dyed woolen

kilt—a sort of primitive himation—or attired in breeches and perhaps a tunic of gaudy hues. Their

weapons were long swords, spears, dirks; some bore round shields, a few had helmets.

One huge man at the forefront of the roughly semicircular van wore a gilt helmet that flared out

in horns. A bronze

tore circled his throat, gold helices his arms. The warriors to his right and left were almost as

flamboyant. He must be the chief. Hanno moved toward him.

The racket from among the Greeks was giving the barbarians pause, puzzling them. They slowed,

looked around, damped their shouts and muttered to each other. Watching, Pytheas saw Hanno meet

their leader. He heard horns blow, voices ring. Men sped about, carrying a word he could not

understand. The Gauls grumbled piecemeal to a halt, withdrew a ways, squatted down or leaned on

their spears, waited. The drizzle thickened, daylight faded, and he saw only shadows yonder.

An hour dragged itself into dusk. Fires blossomed under the forest.

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Hanno returned. He walked like another shadow past Demetrios* pickets, between the hushed and

huddled sailors, to find Pytheas near the boats, not to flee but because there the water cast off

enough light to ease the wet gloom a little.

"We're safe," Hanno declared. Breath gusted out of Pytheas.

"But we've a busy night ahead of us," Hanno went on. "Kindle fires, pitch tents, get the best of

the wretched food we have and cook it as well as possible. Not that our visitors will notice the

quality. It's quantity that counts with them."

Pytheas peered, striving to read the half-seen face. "What's happened?" he asked unevenly. "What

have you done?"

Hanno's tone stayed cool, with a hint of hidden laughter. "You know I've acquired enough Keltic

language to get by, and a fair acquaintance with their customs and beliefs. Those aren't too

different from several other wild races'; I can guess my way past any gaps in my knowledge. I went

out to them in the style of a herald, which made my person sacred, and talked with their chief.

He's not a bad fellow, as such people go. I've known worse monsters in power among Hellenes,

Persians, Phoenicians, Egyptians—No matter."

"What ... did they want?"

"To overcome us before we could escape, of course, take our boats, capture our ships, plunder

them. The fact alone showed this isn't likely their native country. Carthaginians have treaties

with natives. True, these might have denounced the agreement for some childish reason. However,

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then they'd have attacked after dark. They brag about their fearlessness, but when it's a question

of booty more than glory, they wouldn't care to take unnecessary casualties or risk our being able

to stand them off while most of us got away to the ships. Nevertheless they came at us as soon as

we were ashore. So they must be afraid of the dark hereabouts—ghosts and gods of the lately slain,

not yet appeased. Iplayed on that, among other things."

"Who are they?"

"Pictones from the east, intending to settle these parts." Hanno began pacing, to and fro before

the eyes of Pytheas. Sand scrunched soddenly underfoot. "Not much like those tame and half-tame

tribes hi your Massatian hinterland; but not entirely alien to them, either. They have more

respect for skills, for learning, than I've generally found your ordinary Greek does. Their

ornament, all then1 workmanship is beautiful. Not only a herald but a poet, any wise person is

sacred. I proved myself a magician, what they call a druid, by various sleight-of-hand tricks and

occultistic nonsense. I threatened—oh, very delicately—to lay a satire on them if they offended

me. First I'd convinced them I was a poet, by a rough plagiarism of lines from Homer. Til have to

work on that. I've promised them more."

"You have what?"

Hanno's laugh rang aloud. "Ready the camp, I say. Prepare the feast. Tell Demetrios' men they're

to be an honor guard. We'll have guests at dawn, and I daresay the festivities will brawl on

through the whole day. You'll be expected to give pretty lavish gifts, but that's all right, we

have ample trade goods along, and honor will require you receive severalfold the value in stuff we

can better use. Also, we now have safe conduct for a considerable distance north." He paused. Sea

and land sighed around them. "Oh, and if we get decent weather tomorrow night, do carry on your

star observations, Pytheas. That will impress them no end."

"And . . . it's a part of what we're journeying for," whispered the other man. "What you've

saved."

BEHIND LAY the Dumnonian tin mines, and the harbor to which no Carthaginians would come while the

war lasted, and the three ships. Lykias kept a guard on them and saw to their careening and

refitting. Demetrios organized overland

THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS

explorations of the west and south coasts. The interior and north of Pretania Pytheas claimed for

himself.

He came with Hanno and a small military escort out of the hills, onto a rolling plain where, here

and there, wilderness yielded to plowland and pasture. A gigantic mound inside a fosse and

earthworks dominated it. The chalky crater hollowed on top held armed men and their lodgings.

Its commander received the travelers hospitably, once he was sure of their intentions. Folk were

always eager for word from outside; most barbarians had pathetically narrow horizons. Talk went

haltingly by way of Hanno and a Dumnonian who had accompanied the party this far. Now he wanted to

go home. A man by some such name as Segovax offered to replace him and lead the guests to a great

wonder nearby.

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Autumn was in the wind, chill and loud. Leaves were turning yellow, brown, russet and beginning to

fly away. A (rail went onto an upland where trees were few. Cloud shadows and pale sunlight

sickled across immensities of sallow grass. Sheepflocks afar were lost hi loneliness. The Greeks

marched briskly, leading the pack ponies they had gotten in Dumnonia. They would not return to the

hiU fort but push on. One winter was scant time to range this land. Come spring, Pytheas must be

back with his ships.

The sight waxed slowly before him. At first it seemed little, and he supposed people made much of

it only because they knew nothing better. As he neared, the sense of its mass grew and grew.

Within a time-worn earthen rampart loomed a triple ring of standing stones, perhaps seventy cubits

wide, the tallest of them well-nigh three man-heights, slabs almost as huge joining them on top,

gray, lichenous, weathered, powerful beyond his understanding.

"What is this?" he whispered.

"You've seen megalithic works in the South, haven't you?" Hanno's voice was less calm than his

words, hushed beneath the wind.

"Yes, but nothing Uke—Ask!"

Hanno turned to Segovax. Keltic lilted between them.

"He says giants built it in the morning of the world," Hanno told Pytheas.

"Then his people are as ignorant as we," the Greek said

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low, "We'll camp here, overnight at least. Maybe we can learn something." It was more a prayer

than a hope.

Throughout the rest of the day he devoted himself to his eyes and his instruments. Hanno could

give scant help and Segovax hardly any information. Once Pytheas spent a long time finding the

exact center of the complex and sighting from there. "I think," he said as he pointed, "that

yonder stone outside—the sun will be seen to rise over it on Midsummer's Day, But I cannot be

sure, and we cannot wait to find out, can we?"

Night approached. The soldiers, who had snatched the chance to idle, started a fire, cooked food,

made ready. Their talk and occasional laughter rattled meaningless. They had no reason to fear

attack by mortal men, nor to wonder what ghosts might linger here.

The weather had cleared, and after full darkness Pytheas left the camp to observe, which he did at

every opportunity. Hanno came along, bearing a wax tablet and stylus to record the measurements.

He had the Phoenician trick of writing without light. Pytheas could use ridges and grooves to read

instruments by his fingertips, measurements less close than he wished but preferable to none at

all. When a stone had blocked view of flames, they were alone in the ring with the sky.

Titan blacknesses walled them in. Stars flickered between, as if trapped. Overhead curved the

Galaxy, a river of mist across which winged the Swan. The Lyre hung silent. The Dragon coiled

halfway around a pole strangely high hi heaven. Cold deepened with the hours, the vast wheel

turned, frost formed hoar on the stones.

"Hadn't we better get some sleep?" Hanno asked at last. "I'm forgetting what warmth feels like."

"I suppose so." Pytheas' answer dragged. "I've learned as much as I can." Abruptly, harshly: "It

isn't enough! It never will be. Our lives are a million years too short,"

AFTER THE long voyage north, past land that grew ever more rugged, ever more girded with holms and

reefs, the coast finally bent eastward. These were waters as rough as the ground on which their

surf crashed; the ships stood well

out and cast anchor at sunset. It was better to huddle tireless than dare those unknown

approaches. On the fourth day there appeared above haze the red and yellow heights of an island.

Pytheas decided to pass between it and the main shore. His vessels battled their way on until

dark.

Men saw no dawn, for air had thickened further. Aft of them a whiteness towered from edge to

unseen edge of the world. They had a light breeze and visibility of about a dozen Athenian stadia,

so they hoisted dripping sails. The sheer island began to fall behind them, and ahead, to

starboard, they spied a murk that ought to be a lesser one. Noise of breakers loudened, an

undergroundish thunder.

Then the white wall rolled over them, and they were blind. The breeze died and they lay helpless.

Never had they known or heard of a fog such as this. A man amidships saw neither bow nor stern;

vision lost itself in smothering, eddying gray. Over the side he could barely make out turbulence

streaked with foam. Water settled on cordage and fell off in a wicked little ram. The deck sheened

with it. Wetness weighted hair, clothes, breath, while cold gnawed inward to the bone, as if he

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were already drowning. The formlessness was full of noise. Seas grew heavier, timbers groaned, the

hull swayed crazily. Billows rushed and rumbled, surf roared. Horns hooted, crew wailed themselves

hoarse, ship called desperately to unseen ship.

Pytheas, aft by the helm, shook his head. "What makes the waves rise when we have no wind?" he

asked through the tumult.

The steersman gripped his useless tiller and shuddered. "Things out o' the deeps," he rasped, "or

the gods o' these waters, angry that we trouble them."

"Launch the boats," Hanno advised Pytheas. "They'll give some warning if we're about to drift onto

a rock, and maybe they can pull us clear."

The steersman bared teeth. "Oh, no, you don't!" he cried. "You'll not send men down to the demon-

beasts. They won't go."

"I won't send them," Hanno retorted. "I'll lead them."

"Or I," Pytheas said.

It became the Phoenician who shook his head. "We can't risk you. Who else could have brought us

this far, or can

Poul Anderson

THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS

bring us home? Without you we're all dead. Come help me put spirit into the crew."

He got his men, because Pytheas' calm words damped the terror in them. They unlashed a boat,

dragged it to the side, shoved it over a rail when the deck canted and white-maned waves galloped

just beneath. Hanno sprang down, braced calves between two thwarts, took an oar a sailor handed

him, fended off while his rowers followed one by one. They fought free at the end of a towline and

the next boat came after.

"I do hope the other skippers—" began Hanno. A dash of brine choked off what nobody heard anyhow.

The ship was gone into wet smoke. The boat climbed a comber that was tike a moving hillside,

hovered on the crest, plunged into a trough where men looked up the heights of water around them.

Noise rolled empty of direction. Hanno, at the rudder, could only try to keep the hawser unfouled

behind him. "Stroke!" he bawled. "Stroke, stroke, stroke!" Men gasped at oars and bailing buckets.

The sea lapped around their ankles.

A monstrous grip seized them. They whirled. A cataract leaped out of the fog. It burst over their

heads. When they could see again, the ship was upon them. The boat smashed into her hull. The

water ground it against the strakes. Wood broke, tore free of nails, shrieked. The boat fell

asunder.

Pytheas beheld it. A man flailed arms and legs. The sea dashed him at the ship. His skull split

open. Brains, blood, body went under.

"Lines out!" Pytheas shouted. He himself didn't stop to uncoil any from a bollard. He drew his

knife and slashed a sheet free of the slack mainsail. When he cast the end overboard, it

disappeared in fog and foam. None of the swimmers he glimpsed, lost, glimpsed again had noticed

it.

He signalled for another length. The cut sheet still cleated and in his left hand, he slid over

the rail. Feet planted on the hull, arm straining to hold the cordage taut and himself in place,

he leaned straight out. With his right hand he swung the second line like a whip.

Now he was visible to those he would save, except when the vessel rose onto that side and a wave

fountained across him. A man swung past. Pytheas flicked the loose line at his face. The man

caught it. Sailors on deck hauled him aboard.

The third whom Pytheas rescued was Hanno, clinging to an oar. After that, his strength was spent.

He got back with the help of two mariners and fell in a heap beside the Phoenician. No others

attempted his feat; but no more waifs came to sight in the rage around.

Hanno stirred. "To the cabin, you and me and these two," he said through clattering teeth. "Else

the cold will kill us. We wouldn't have lived ten minutes in that water."

In the shelter, men stripped, toweled till blood awoke to stinging life, pulled blankets tightly

about themselves. "You were magnificent, my friend," Hanno said. "I wouldn't have supposed you, a

scholar—tough, but a scholar—could do it."

"Nor would I have." Exhaustion flattened Pytheas' voice.

"You saved us few from the consequences of my folly." - "No folly. Who could have foreseen the sea

in windless air would go so wild so fast?"

"What might have done it?"

"Demons," mumbled a sailor.

"No," Pytheas replied. "It must have been a trick of these enormous Atlantic tides, thrusting

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through a strait cluttered with isles and reefs."

Hanno mustered a chuckle. "Still the philosopher, you!"

"We've a boat left," Pytheas said. "And our luck may turn. Beseech your gods if you like, boys."

He lay down on his pallet. "I am going to sleep."

THE SHIPS survived, though one scraped a rock and opened seams. When fog had lifted and waters

somewhat calmed, rowers pulled the three to the high island. They found a safe anchorage with a

sloping strand where, at low water, they could work to repair damage.

Several families lived nearby: unshorn, skin-clad fishers who kept a few animals and scratched in

tiny gardens. Their dwellings were dry-laid stones and turf roofs above pits. At first they fled

and watched from afar. Pytheas ordered goods set out, and they timidly returned to collect these.

Thereafter the Greeks were their house guests.

That proved fortunate. A gale came from the west. The ships got barely adequate protection from

the bluffs around

Poul Anderson

THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS

the east-side inlet, but everywhere else the storm ramped unchecked for days and nights. Men could

not stand against it. Indoors they must struggle to speak and hear through the racket. Breakers

higher than city battlements hurled themselves onto the western cliffs. Stones Weighing tons broke

from their beds in what had been the shallows. Earth trembled. The air was a torrent of spume,

whose salt flayed faces and blinded eyes. It was as if the world had toppled into primordial

chaos.

Pytheas, Hanno, and their companions hunched crowded together on dried seaweed strewn over a dirt

floor in a cave of gloom. Coals glowed faint red on the hearthstone. Smoke drifted acrid through

the chill. Pytheas was another shadow, his words a whisper amidst the violence: "The fog, and now

this. Here is neither sea nor land nor air. They have all become one, a thing like a sea-lung.

Farther north can only be the Great Ice. I think we are near the border of life's kingdom." They

saw his head lift. "But we have not come to the end of our search."

EASTWARD OVERSEA, four days' sail from the northern tip of Pretania, the explorers found another

land. It rose sharply out of the water, but holms protected a great bay. On an arm of this dwelt

folk who received newcomers kindly. They were not Keltoi, being even more tall and fair. Their

language was kin to a Germanic tongue which Hanno had gotten a little of on an earlier wandering;

he could soon make himself understood. Their iron tools and weapons, arts and way of life, did

bear a Keltic mark. However, their spirit seemed different, more sober, less possessed by the

unearthly.

The Greeks meant to abide a short while, inquire about those realms that were their goal, take on

fresh supplies, and proceed. But their stay lengthened. Toil, danger, loss had worn them down.

Here they found hospitality and admiration. As they gained words, they won full comradeship,

shared in undertakings, swapped thoughts and recollections and songs, sported, made merry. The

women were welcoming. Nobody urged Pytheas to order anchors up or asked why he did not.

The guests were no parasites. They brought wonderful gifts. On a ship of theirs they carried men

who knew only longboats fashioned of planks stitched together, driven by paddles. Those men

learned more about their own waters and communities elsewhere than they had dreamed they might.

Trade followed, and visits to and fro for the first time ever. Hunting was excellent in the

hinterland, and the soldiers fetched plenty of meat home. The presence of the Greeks, their

revelation of an outside world, gave new sparkle to life. They felt themselves taken into

brotherhood.

This was the country its people named Thule.

Midsummer came, with the light nights.

Hanno and a lass went to gather berries. Alone under the sweetnesses of birch trees, they made

love. The long day tired her, and after they returned to her father's house she fell happily

asleep. He could not. He lay for an hour on their bed of hides, feeling her warm against him,

hearing her and her family breathe, himself inhaling the fragrance and pungency of the cows

stalled at the far end of the single long room. A banked fire sometimes let slip a flamelet, but

what made soft dusk was the sky beyond the wickerwork door. Finally he rose, pulled his tunic back

over his head, and stole forth.

Above him reached utter clarity, a hue that raised memo-*ries of white roses. No more than half a

dozen stars could shine through it, atremble, barely seeable. Air rested cool, so quiet that he

heard water lap on the bayshore. Dew gleamed on ground that slanted down to the broad argency of

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it. Inland the terrain climbed toward mountains whose ridges lifted blue-gray into heaven.

He left the village. Its houses nestled together, a double tow that ended at a great barn where

grain was threshed, in this rainy climate, and which would serve as a fortress in case of attack.

Beyond were paddocks, beehives, small fields goldening toward harvest. He drifted from them,

beachward. When he came to grass he wiped off his bare feet the muck that free-running pigs and

chickens had left in the lane. The moisture caressed him. Farther on he reached shingle, rocks

cold and hard but worn smooth. The tide was ebbing, that mighty pulse which the Mediterranean seas

scarcely felt, and kelp sprawled along the strand. It gave off odors of salt, depths, mysteries.

Poul Anderson

THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS

Some distance onward, a man stood looking aloft. Brass gleamed as he pointed his instrument. Hanno

approached. "You too?" he murmured.

Pytheas started, turned about, and replied mechanically, "Rejoice." In the luminous twilight it

was clear how he must force a smile.

"Not easy to sleep under these conditions," Hanno ventured. The natives themselves didn't much.

Pytheas nodded. "I hate to miss a minute of the loveliness."

"Poor for astronomy, though."

"Um, by day I've been . . . gathering data that will yield a better value for the obliquity of the

ecliptic."

"You should have ample by now. We're past the solstice."

Pytheas glanced away.

"And you sound right defensive," Hanno pursued. "Why do we linger here?"

Pytheas bit his lip. "We've ... a wealth of discoveries still to make. It's like a whole new

world."

Hanno's voice crackled: "Like the land of the Lotus Eaters."

Pytheas lifted his quadrant as if it were a shield. "No, no, these are real people, they labor and

have children and grow old and die the same as us."

Hanno regarded him. The waters whispered. Finally the Phoenician said, "It's Vana, isn't it?"

Pytheas stood mute.

"Many of these girls are beautiful," Hanno went on. "Height, stenderness, skin that the summer sun

kisses tawny, eyes like the sky around that sun, and those blond manes—oh, yes. And the one who's

with you, she's the bonniest of the lot."

"It's more than that," Pytheas said. "She's . . . free. Unlettered, unaware, but quick and eager

to learn. Proud, fearless. We cage our wives, we Greeks. I never thought of it till lately, but

... is it not our doing that the poor creatures turn so dull that we're apt to seek sweethearts

male?"

"Or whores."

"Vana is as mettlesome as the liveliest hetaira. But she's not for sale, Hanno. She honestly loves

me. A few days ago we decided she must be carrying my child. She came to my arms weeping and

laughing."

"She's a dear person, true. But she's a barbarian."

"That can be changed."

Hanno shook his head. "Don't play tricks on yourself, my friend. It's not like you. Do you

daydream about taking her along when we leave? If she survived the voyage, she'd wither and die in

Massalia, like any uprooted wildflower. What could she make herself into? What sort of life could

you give her? You're too late. Both of you."

Again Pytheas stood mute.

"Nor can you settle here," Hanno told him. "Only think. You, a civilized man, a philosopher,

crammed cheek by jowl with other human bodies and cattle into a wretched wattle-and-dauh hut. No

books. No correspondence. No discourse. No sculptures, no temples, no traditions of yours, nothing

of all that's gone to form your soul. She'll age fast, your lady, her teeth will go and her dugs

will sag and you'll loathe her because she was the bait that trapped you. Think, I say, think."

Pytheas* free hand knotted into a fist and smote his thigh, over and over. "But what can I do?" ,

"Leave. She'll have no trouble getting a husband who'll raise the child. Her father's well off by

their standards, she's proven herself fertile, and every child is precious, as many of them as

they lose. Hoist sail and go. We came in search of the Amber Island, remember? Or if it's a myth,

then we want to find whatever the reality is. We have these eastern shores and seas to learn a

little about. We mean to return to Pretania and finish circumnavigating it, determine its size and

shape, for it's important to Europe in a way that Thule can't be for centuries. And then come home

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to your people, city, wife, children, grandchildren. Do your duty, man!"

"You . . . speak harshly."

"Yes. I respect you that much, Pytheas."

The Greek looked from side to side, to the mountains athwart that sky which hid the stars in its

light, down over woodlands and meadows, out across the shining bay toward unseen Ocean. "Yes," he

said at last. "You're right. We should have departed long ago. We shall. I'm a graybeard fool."

Hanno smiled. "No, simply a man. She brought a springtime you thought you'd lost back into your

heart. How often I've seen it happen."

Poul Anderson

THE BOAT OF A MILLION YEARS

"Has it to you?"

Hanno laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Come," he said, "let's go back and try to sleep.

We've work ahead of

us.'

WEARY, BATTERED, faded, and triumphant, three ships neared Massalia harbor. It was a crisp autumn

day, the water danced and glittered as if diamond were strewn upon sapphire, but wind was light

and bottoms were foul; they moved slowly.

Pytheas beckoned Hanno to him. "Stand with me here on the foredeck," he requested, "for it may be

the last quiet talk we shall ever have."

The Phoenician joined him in the bows. Pytheas was being his own lookout in this final hour of his

voyage. "You can certainly expect a busy time," Hanno agreed. "Everybody and his third cousin will

want to meet you, question you, hear you lecture, send you letters, demand a copy of your book and

insist you write it yesterday."

Pytheas' lips quirked upward. "You'll always have a jape, won't you?"

They stood for a bit, watching. Now as the season of the mariners drew to a close, the waves—how

small and gentle, in this refuge from the Atlantic—were beswarmed with vessels. Rowboats,

lighters, tarry fishers, tubby coastwise merchantmen, a big grain ship from Egypt, a gilt-trimmed

barge, two lean warcraft spider-walking on oars, all sought passage. Shouts and oaths volleyed.

Sails boomed, yardarms slatted, tholepins creaked. The city shone ahead, a blue-shadowed white

intricacy overspilling its walls. Smoke blew in tatters from red tile roofs. Farmsteads and villas

nestled amidst brown stubblefields, pastures still green, darkling pines and yellowing orchards

beyond. At the back of those hills, a higher range lifted dun. Gulls dipped and soared, mewing, in

their hundreds, like a snowstorm of the North.

"You will not change your mind, Hanno?" Pytheas asked.

The other turned grim. "I cannot. I'll stay tiU I collect my pay, and then be off."

"Why? I don't understand. And you won't explain."

"It's best."

"I tell you, a man of your abilities has a brilliant future here—boundless. And not as a metic.

With the influence I'll have, I can get you Massaliot citizenship, Hanno."

"I know. You've said this before. Thank you, but no."

Pytheas touched the Phoenician's hand, which grasped the rail hard. "Are you afraid people will

hold your origin against you? They won't. I promise. We're above that, we're a cosmopolis."

"I am everywhere an alien."

Pytheas sighed. "Never have you . . . opened your soul to me, as I have to you. And even so ... I

have never felt so close to anyone else. Not even—" He broke off, and both -turned their glances

aside.

Hanno took on his cool tone again. He smiled. "We've Been through tremendous things together, good

and bad, terrible and tedious, frolicsome and frightening, delightful and deadly. That does forge

bonds."

"And yet you will sever them ... so easily?" Pytheas wondered. "You will merely bid me farewell?"

In a single instant, before Hanno summoned laughter back to himself, something tore apart and the

Greek looked into a pain that bewildered him. "What else is life but always bidding farewell?"

The Peaches of Forever

To YEN Ting-kuo, subprefect of the Tumbling Brook district, came an inspector from QTang-an, on an

errand for the very Emperor. A courier arrived beforehand, giving the household time to prepare a

suitable welcome. Next noontide the party appeared, first a dust cloud on the eastern road, then a

troop of mounted men, servants and soldiers, attendant on a carriage drawn by four white horses.

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file:///F|/rah/Poul%20Anderson/Anderson,%20Poul%20-%20The%20Boat%20of%20a%20Million%20Years.txtThisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictitious,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleoreventsispurelycoincidental.THEBOATOFAMILLIONYEARSCopyright©byPoulAndersonAllrightsreserved,in...

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