The Chronicles of St Mary's Omnibus, page 76
‘Please also be aware that your contracts specifically require political neutrality, so if any of you were thinking of indulging in matters riotous, you will be in breach of contract and liable to disciplinary proceedings. Since none of you ever have, or ever will, pay one single penny in poll tax or its equivalent, I will be particularly unsympathetic to anyone attempting to emulate the exploits of Messrs Tyler, Ball, and Straw. I trust I have made myself clear on this matter.’
Disappointed, his unit nodded.
‘Dr Maxwell, may I see you in my office at your earliest convenience, please.’
Shit! How does he know these things? He couldn’t possibly know that Peterson, Markham, and I, full of civic indignation, were off to add to the turmoil in Rushford at close of play today. Markham even had our banners ready. The polite NON AD CAPITAGIUM (No to the poll tax), the hopeful MAGIS STIPENDIUM HISTORICI (More money for historians) and the always accurate POLICITI NOSTRAE OMNEC WANKERS SUNT (Most politicians are not very good).
We suspected he’d obtained the wording from an online translation site. No one had the heart to tell him.
Mrs Partridge was tight-lipped.
‘He’s already had telephone calls from Thirsk, the bank, and the Chief Constable this morning. Please try not to irritate him, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Of course not, Mrs Partridge.’
Fat chance.
‘Good morning, sir. Are we staring at bankruptcy again?’
‘It’s never that bad, Dr Maxwell. There are always areas where – adjustments – can be made.’
I made haste to distract him before he thought about adjusting me.
‘What happened about The Play, sir? I thought we were going to be rich for ever.’
Some five hundred years ago, Dr Bairstow had commissioned a play from the man himself, Bill the Bard, concerning the life of Mary Stuart and buried it at St Mary’s for us to find and become financially independent. This inspired plan had fallen at the first fence when Professor Rapson, sneaking a quick preview, discovered that in this version, the sixteenth century had executed Elizabeth Tudor instead. We’d had to nip back and sort it all out. That part of the mission had been extremely successful. Sadly, the part where we were supposed to bring back that murdering bastard Clive Ronan had gone less well. He’d given us the slip. Again. He always got away. But one day …
However, back to the present. Dr Bairstow hadn’t finished.
‘And then, of course, our collection of sonnets, the incalculably priceless sonnets revealing the identity of the Dark Lady, were somehow – given away, Dr Maxwell.’
Now that was a little unfair. I’d offered them to a future, damaged St Mary’s whose need was far greater than ours. And he’d reburied the sonnets himself for them to discover in the future. How was I to blame?
‘In some nebulous manner which I cannot be bothered to explain, Dr Maxwell, I hold you completely responsible for our current predicament. However, I am giving you the chance to redeem yourself.’
He surely didn’t expect me to nip into the future and ask for them back?
He handed me a file.
‘The Gates of Grief.’
I know this sounds like one of those violent computer games to which the security and technical sections are always challenging each other down in Hawking, but the Gates of Grief is actually the narrow stretch of water in the Red Sea, where the Horn of Africa nearly touches the Yemen, and, according to the latest research, it’s the place where our ancestors made their second and only successful crossing out of Africa, to spread across the rest of the world.
I stared at him. Even after all these years, he still had the power to surprise me.
‘But sir … How …’ and then remembered he wasn’t in the best mood and was unlikely to appreciate a member of his senior staff bleating at him like a confused sheep.
He raised a discouraging eyebrow but I battled on anyway.
‘Establishing the coordinates will be nearly impossible, sir. Estimates vary between 130,000 and 60,000 years ago and …’
‘You’ve been back further than that, Dr Maxwell.’
‘Yes, but that wasn’t event-specific, sir. That was just bimbling around in the Cretaceous. The Gates of Grief is just one tiny event in a vast ocean of time and without …’
‘Not a tiny event, Dr Maxwell. One of the most important events in the development of the human race.’
‘Agreed, sir. But the point I am trying to make is that without specific coordinates …’
He handed me a piece of paper. ‘Specific coordinates.’
I stared at it. If Dr Bairstow said these were the coordinates, then they were. I wasn’t going to argue.
‘How …?’
‘I want a mission plan by this time tomorrow. You may select your own team.’
I drew breath to speak again but I was obviously destined not to complete a sentence this morning. Without knowing quite how it happened, I was on the other side of the door and Mrs Partridge was regarding me with her habitual look of mingled exasperation and suspicion.
I had the freedom to select my own team. I stood in the gallery and looked down at the history department, milling noisily around the Hall, swilling tea and arguing. Some of them were still pretty battered after Troy. Schiller and Van Owen were worn out. Prentiss still limped. Roberts and Morgan were on light duties.
I went to see Peterson.
‘Have you got any fully functioning Pathfinders?’
‘Nope. They’re all still hobbling, bruised, bandaged, and/or knackered.’
‘That’s what I thought. Is it me or do young people today have no stamina?’
‘Says the woman whose black eye actually encompassed her ear as well.’
‘What about you?’
He was instantly suspicious. ‘What about me?’
‘I’ve got a jump. Want to come?’
‘Why me?’
‘Last time I left you in charge, my department went blue.’
‘Oh, we’re not back to that again, are we? You must learn to let go, Max.’
‘OK, if you’re not interested …’
‘I didn’t say that.’
I waited.
‘All right. What is it?’
‘The Gates of Grief.’
‘That sounds cheerful. What particular disaster are you leading me into now?’
‘The second and only successful migration out of Africa. Sunny climate. Beach views. No crowds. Simple observation. No interaction of any kind. Anything from two days to two months. Cheap holiday.’
‘Sounds good, actually. Yes, sign me up. Anyone else?’
‘No,’ I said, maybe a little too quickly, but he said nothing.
‘When?’
‘Day after tomorrow?’
‘Fine.’
We met outside my pod, Number Eight, two days later. Peterson surveyed it critically.
‘I can’t believe this old heap is still working.’
‘It’ll hold together long enough for you to bump us clear across the Yemen and into the Red Sea.’
‘Says the person responsible for turning her pod into a fireball.’
‘Are you ready?’ enquired Dieter. ‘Or shall we all go and sit down while the two of you thrash out which of you is the worst driver? Trust me – there’s nothing to choose between you.’
Having effortlessly offended both of us, he disappeared into the pod. We followed him in. Peterson ran through the pre-flight checks. I stowed our gear.
Two minutes later, the world went white.
We landed on the eastern side of the strait on a wide plain – part sand, part coarse grass. To the west, an island-dotted sea reflected a deep blue sky. It’s only when you jump back to a time before the industrial age and air travel that you realise how dirty our world has become. In the distance, the coarse sea grass gave way to low, undulating, green hills. A soft breeze blew. Waves lapped gently.
‘Well, this is nice,’ said Peterson, lugging out the cam net. ‘Give us a hand.’
We spent the next hour setting up camp. A cam net stretched over the pod rendered us not invisible, but certainly inconspicuous. And gave us some much-needed shade. There wasn’t a tree in sight. We set up a campfire, made a brew, and settled down to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
We were still waiting two weeks later.
Tim had a glorious tan. I had a peeling nose. We’d practised our swimming, read a few books, explored the coastline, written our logs, and just generally loafed around. Just like being on holiday. We had provisions for three months. We could afford to wait. It did cross my mind that Dr Bairstow had sent us here to get us out of the way for some reason. When I mentioned this to Peterson, he laughed and accused me of paranoia. Which is ridiculous because of course I know the whole world isn’t really out to get me. I’m pretty sure Switzerland is neutral.
Another week passed, but life was pleasant so I didn’t care. The sun was hot but the breezes were cool. Sea levels were a good one hundred and fifty feet lower than today and a series of humps and small islands stretched across the Red Sea like a herd of Loch Ness monsters.
‘Shouldn’t be too difficult,’ said Peterson, following my gaze. ‘Presumably they just island hop.’
I nodded. He was right. From here, it looked easy. Even from the other shore, they would be able to see across the straits to the low, green hills of the Yemen. They had something to aim for. They weren’t just blindly setting out into the unknown.
As living conditions became harsher in Africa, small groups of people set off to make new lives for themselves. Initially, they had travelled north and settled in the Levant. And eventually died out. That line failed. As the Sahara grew even harsher, people began to look east for a way out. Which would bring them here – to the Gates of Grief. To perhaps one of the most important events in all the long story of mankind. Because DNA evidence is quite clear. There was only ever one successful migration out of Africa and every one of us – every single person outside of Africa – is descended from one of the people who made that one crossing. Estimates put the number at around two hundred to two hundred and fifty people. That’s how closely we’re all related. Something we should remember sometimes.
And we were here to witness that single, successful crossing.
We hoped.
We rarely took our eyes off the shoreline, waiting to see the people – our ancestors – emerging from the sea. If everything went well for them, it could all be over in minutes – they’d be off and away and we’d have missed it. Time ticked by.
We didn’t bother guarding our campsite. Old habits die hard and it took some getting used to, but the fact remained. There were no modern humans anywhere outside of Africa. Which was, of course, the whole point of our being here.
Sometimes, however, especially at night, with this huge emptiness all around us, stretching out in every direction, the thought was just a little overwhelming.
Just after we’d cleared away our midday meal one day, Tim was tightening the cam net when he looked across the water and said urgently, ‘Max. They’re here. They’re coming.’
And they were.
I jumped to my feet. Far out in the water, I could see bobbing dots. A lot of bobbing dots. They were here.
We grabbed our kit and settled in our carefully chosen site. Somewhere we could see them and they couldn’t see us.
Tim was correct. They were island hopping. We set up the recorders and got stuck in.
‘Look at that,’ said Tim, softly. ‘Who says our ancestors weren’t bright?’
He was right. They were wonderfully well organised. A series of rafts were strung together, piled high with bundles and carrying what looked like the old and the very young. I’ve heard it said that you can judge a civilisation by the treatment of its old people. In an age where people were a scarce resource, every person was valued. There were not so many people in the world that they could be careless with each other.
The more able-bodied – women as well as men, ranged up and down the rafts, checking, pushing, pulling, encouraging.
Some carried long staffs, not to punt, as we initially thought, but over the deep places one person would extend their staff horizontally, someone would grasp the other end and the shorter people and those who couldn’t swim would work their way, in perfect safety, hand over hand, from one staff to the next.
Some half dozen men led from the front, poking with their staffs, finding the way.
‘Pathfinders,’ said Peterson, smugly.
Some people carried tiny children on their shoulders and all the time they shouted to each other. They had language. They shouted instructions, advice, and encouragement. They urged each other on. No one was forgotten.
Occasionally, someone clung to a raft, either guiding it or having a rest.
They were swimming one minute, then they were splashing through shallow water. Then back to swimming again as they hopped from island to tiny island.
But the longest and most difficult stretch was the final stage. The last tiny piece of land was some way from the eastern shore. And the currents ran swift here. And they would be tired.
Their leaders struggled to keep their feet, gave it up, and began to swim, dog-style, heads held high out of the water. And then, even as we watched, they weren’t swimming – they were floundering. Two or three lost their staffs, which were immediately whirled away from them. People shouted from the rafts. Some tried to stand up and the rafts wobbled. Packs fell over the side and floated away. More people shouted. Someone made a grab for one and fell overboard. Someone else screamed. The men at the front, who should have had all their attention on finding their way forward, looked back. Another of them was whirled away by the current.
The line of rafts began to separate. Either because the lines had snapped or they were being cut so that if one sank, it wouldn’t take the others with it.
Men and women shouted incomprehensibly. Panic was beginning to spread. The convoy was breaking up. One raft began to float away. There were children on it …
They still had some way to go to shore. They weren’t going to make it. This crossing was going to be as unsuccessful as all the others.
I felt a kind of despair. They’d come so far. They’d so nearly made it. They deserved to make it. Surely we could do something. We had ropes. We could help.
I scrambled to my feet in the sand.
Peterson pulled me back down again.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Rope. We can help.’
‘No, we can’t.’
‘Tim, for God’s sake …’
‘No, you can’t, Max. Not this time.’
‘They’re not going to make it. We must do something. This is one of the most significant events in human History.’
‘And that’s why we can’t interfere. Not this time. Don’t you see? It’s far too important. If we interfere we’re changing all of human History.’
I struggled against him.
‘Stop it,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m not letting go and you’ll just hurt yourself.’
‘Tim, these people are dying.’
‘Then they’re meant to. You know that. You’re an historian, Max. You’ve got away with a lot in the past and you probably will again in the future. But not today.’
‘Let me go, Mr Peterson. Now.’
‘No,’ he said, simply.
‘I’m ordering you …’
‘No.’
‘Tim …’
‘I’m not doing it, Max, so give it up.’
I was still struggling. We were kicking sand everywhere but he held me in a grip of iron. I had no idea he was so strong.
‘They’re dying out there. ‘
‘And we’ll be dying here if I let you go.’
‘They’re our ancestors. They’re us. What is the matter with you?’
‘Do you think I’m happy about this? But someone always has to keep their head. It was you at Troy. Today, here and now, it’s me. You can’t do this, Max. You can’t wipe Chief Farrell out of your life for what he did at Troy and then turn round and do exactly the same thing yourself.’
‘It’s not the same thing.’
‘It’s exactly the same thing. I won’t let you do it. Now stop struggling. I’m warning you, I’ll write you up and that would finish both of us.’
He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘It’s all in the lap of the gods, Max. As it should be.’
I was suddenly still. He was right. Reluctantly, I nodded and slowly, an inch at a time, he let me go.
I rolled away from him and busied myself with the equipment. Doing what I was here for. Watching people die. Raging silently at History. At injustice. At the futility of it all. For all the people everywhere who quietly and patiently build their lives, only to watch them being knocked down by war, famine, earthquake, or just plain bad luck. I was so finished with this bloody awful job. I would go to Thirsk, work in a clean office, participate in learned debate, and never, ever, have to stand helplessly by and see people die again.
I stared at the equipment so I didn’t have to watch this tiny group of people whirling away, lost in the currents, disappearing one by one, as the waters closed over their heads. Children, old people, all of them.
But why had Dr Bairstow had given us these coordinates? Surely not to witness yet another failure in a long line of failures. And here was an interesting question. Was this the successful migration to which Dr Bairstow had given us the coordinates? Or was this the successful migration because Dr Bairstow had given us the coordinates?
Then, suddenly, maybe it wasn’t going to be another failure.
‘There,’ said Tim, with sudden excitement. ‘Further up. No, to your left.’
