The Technicolor Time Machine

A cow had wandered across the boggy meadow that bordered the woods and the bull had followed her. Though small, the bull was a mean and surly beast, with a cast in one eye that gave it an even more evil appearance. It was allowed to roam freely and had been chased from the movie encampment more than once. It shook its head and bellowed again.

“Ottar,” Barney shouted. “Get that beast out of here before it upsets the Indians.”

It hadn’t upset the Cape Dorset—it had frightened them witless. They had never seen a roaring and snorting beast like this before and were rigid with fear. Ottar grabbed up a length of pole from the shore and ran, shouting, at the bull. It scraped at the ground with a hoof, lowered its head and charged Ottar. He stepped aside, called it a short and foul Old Norse name, then banged it across the flanks with the pole.

This did not have the desired effect. Instead of wheeling to get at its tormenter, the animal bellowed and charged toward the Cape Dorset, linking their dark and unfamiliar shapes with the present disturbance. The newcomers shrieked and ran.

The panic was catching and someone shouted that the skraelling were attacking and the northmen looked for their weapons. Two of the terrified Dorset were trapped in among the buldings and they ran to Ottar’s house and tried to force their way in, but the door was bolted. Ottar rushed to defend his home and when one of the men turned, with his spear raised, Ottar brought the pole down on his head, cracking the pole in two and crushing the man’s skull at the same time.

Within sixty seconds the scuffle was over. The bull, the cause of it all, had splashed through the brook and was calmly eating grass in the meadow on the other side. Driven by furiously wielded paddles the skin boats were heading toward the open sea, while many of the packs of sealskins had been left behind on the beach. One of the housecarls had an arrow through his hand. Two of the Cape Dorset, induing the one Ottar had hit, were dead.

“Madonna mia,” Gino said, straightening up from behind the camera and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “What tempers these people got. Worse than Siciliani.”

“It is nothing but a stupid waste,” Jens said. He was sitting on the ground holding his stomach with both hands. “They were all frightened, just like children, the emotions of children and the bodies of men. So they kill each other. The waste of it all.”

“But it makes good film,” Barney said. “And we’re not here to interfere with the local customs. What happened to you—get kicked in the stomach during the stampede?”

“Not interfere with the local customs, very humorous. You disrupt these people’s lives completely for your cinematic drivel, then you avoid the consequences of your actions…” He grimaced suddenly, with his teeth clamped tightly together. Barney looked down and gaped at the spreading red patch between Lyn’s fingers.

“You’ve been hurt,” he said, unbelievingly, then spun about. “Tex—the first-aid box, quick!”

“Why the concern about me? I saw you looking at that housecarl with the wounded hand—and that did not seem to bother you. The Norse were reputed to sew up their wounds with carpenter’s thread after a battle. Why don’t you get me some thread?”

“Take it easy, Jens, you’ve been hurt. We’ll take care of you.”

Tex ran up with the first-aid box and put it on the ground next to Jens, kneeling at the wounded man’s side.

“What happened?” he asked in a quiet, surprisingly gentle voice.

“It was a spear,” Jens said. “So quickly, I never realized. I was between the man and the boats. He was panicked. I raised my hands, tried to talk to him, then there was just this stab of pain and he was past and gone.”

“Let me look at it. I’ve seen plenty before, bayonet wounds in New Guinea.” His voice was professional and calm, and when he pulled at Jens’ hands they loosened and came away; with a quick slash of his knife he cut open the bloodstained clothing.

“Not bad,” he said, eyeing the red wound. “Nice clean puncture into the guts. Below the stomach and it doesn’t look deep enough to have got at anything else. Hospital case. They’ll sew up the holes, put in some abdominal drains and fill you full of antibiotics. Try and treat it in the field and you’ll be dead of peritonitis in a couple of days.”

“You are being damn frank,” Lyn said, but he smiled.

“Always,” Tex said, taking out a morphine Syrette and cracking it open. “A guy knows what’s going on he don’t complain about the treatment. Helps him, helps everyone else.” He gave the injection with practiced swiftness.

“Are you sure the nurse cannot treat it here? I don’t wish to return yet…”

“Full salary and bonus,” Barney said cheeringly. “And a private room in the hospital—don’t worry about a thing.”