Chapter 15

Tuesday, June 4, 3089, 3:06 p.m. At 3:06 p.m., Rebecca glanced up from the journal and discovered a procession wending its way along the path. Perhaps 50 natives in all; at the head of the line was a wizened old man, long white hair braided Native American style. The leader appeared legless, borne aloft in a canopied transport by four, heavily-muscled young men, also with long braided hair. Each wore the same, hand-stitched tanned skins as Gudrun and Frieda.

The elder’s chest was adorned Native American-style with feather and polished stone necklaces. He gripped a burnished wooden staff topped with a gold knob in his gnarled right hand. Men, women, and children alike, wore rough leather moccasins; the women all bore a leather hip bag, exclusively on the right hip. Rebecca noted wooden tables and benches piled high atop two big-wheeled carts pulled by additional stout males, and behind them, two more carts, laden with food. The chief had ordered a feast.

One word she’d looked up awaiting Gudrun’s return was ‘leader’. Not surprisingly, the phonetic translation came back ‘Leda’, as did ‘chief, ‘superior’, ‘master’, ‘mistress’, and ‘boss’. In one instance--she couldn’t recall which--Leda had noted in the margins: “One of the few words showing any probability of being derived from English.” How apt, she’d thought acidly.

Anxious, and determined not to show it, Rebecca slowly stood and walked to the platform’s edge to observe the procession’s approach. The journal clasped loosely behind her back, she searched for and discovered Gudrun and Frieda, three-quarters back in the processional, walking head down, as did every woman in the group. Only the men (and children foolhardy enough to chance a peek at the returned High One) walked eyes forward, though none, save the old man, dared meet Rebecca’s gaze. He did so anxiously, visibly trembling, and fearful at her presence. Rebecca felt more the imposter than ever: a 16-year-old, for God’s sake, a cowed and frightened little girl.

The bearers stopped short of the verge and lowered the carrier carefully to the ground. What the fuck do I do now, Rebecca wondered. Instinct told her to run.

While two bearers carefully lifted the chief and deposited him on a wooden stool, the second pair circled to the rear of the carrier and removed what Rebecca realized were prosthetic limbs. While the lead bearers carefully attached one to each of the chief’s truncated thighs, Rebecca wondered how the chief lost his legs in the first place. She hoped they weren’t lost in battle. A glance about the processional failed to uncover weapons of any kind—unless they were hidden beneath the food, or tables and benches, prior to leaving the village. Rebecca wondered where the village was located, and what it looked like.

Standing with the assistance of his lead bearers, the chief steadied himself and then irritability shook them off. He made the forehead to lips to chest greeting, while the bearers took up residence beside him with their heads bowed, and hands clasped behind their backs—everyone did, she noted. He then placed his face into his cupped hands; Rebecca took that as her cue to descend to ground level.

Approaching, Rebecca stopped at the edge of the verge and touched the chieftain’s forehead with her right thump. Was she expected to speak? Was the chief? Frustrated, she stepped back, her lexicon held at the ready before her. Lowering his hands, and spreading them as he bowed, the chief recited a long sentence in his songlike language. From her back pocket, Rebecca’s iPhone translated:

“With all due fill, Your Eminence, this humble servant of yours, Leda Gerhard of Arcadia, bids you fair and well in your return to office. I pledge allegiance of all under your domain.”

What the fuck? Rebecca carefully removed her phone and gazed at the display. In a typical alert box at the top, she read a written version of the spoken translation. Leda Gerhard had appeared as startled as she to have heard Siri’s mellifluous voice but seemed to accept it in stride. A question mark appeared in a second alert box below the first. Siri awaited a response. Rebecca cleared her throat.

“Be it known, Leda Gerhard of Arcadia, that Rebecca of Huntington doth accept your allegiance with all expected due—” What the fuck was she saying? “—and those under my domain, from whence you come forth.” Stepping back a pace, she nodded firmly and placed the lexicon behind her back, while praying Siri translated her gibberish into something intelligible to the chief. After an interminable pause, Siri translated her statement into Leda Gerhard’s beautiful, if indecipherable language.

Though agitated, the chief bowed deeply, hands swept out to the sides. His lead bearers stood ready to grab him should he lose balance, or stagger forward, she noted. He then suddenly straightened and shouted triumphantly with his hands in the air: “Put on the feast! We eat this day with Leda Rebecca of Huntington, upon whom all grace falls!” Rebecca grinned tightly as Siri translated the shout. Food, she thought, hungrily ... what a wonderful word.

Rebecca was informed that without permission, her subjects were expressly forbidden to trespass onto the grass verge. The older of Leda Gerhard’s lead bearers, whom Siri somehow identified as Holger, humbly requested permission to present a stoutly-built, comfortable-looking chair, and a round wooden table upon which to present food and drink. Granted permission, he positioned the table half on the grass verge, and half on the other side, allowing villagers to deposit dishes and later remove them without worry of trespassing. It seemed the perfect solution to Rebecca; if a little ludicrous. OK, tremendously ludicrous, she thought. She belonged in school, not holding domain over a primitive culture in the year 3089.

The village womenfolk, Gudrun among them, unloaded the food while men set about unloading tables, benches, and chairs, and then built three roaring cook-fires. Children, meanwhile, did what children everywhere do: play wildly and get into the adult’s hair until rebuked; Rebecca noted that Frieda seemed to have only her mother.

Rebecca considered herself fortunate that Frieda had spotted her first, rather than her mother or another adult. Her undignified antics at the top of the ramp might have mystified an adult, calling into question her authority, casting into doubt her presence as a High One. She also wondered if use of the gate had mistakenly convinced the palace of her status as a High One, thereby granting her nearly unlimited access to the facility. She had arrived in the same manner that The High Ones had exited the palace, after all: via the gate. It might explain the sudden appearance of the bath furnishings and toiletries, possibly even the clean-up of her pee puddle from last night. Only, who or what entity had performed those acts? And how did Siri suddenly become fluent in Birdsong, and decide to handle translations for her?

Holger placed a large ceramic goblet before her on the table, and a smaller one beside it, both filled to the brim with colored liquid: dark yellow in the case of the larger goblet, milky white in the case of the other. Alongside the goblets he stacked a pile of folded, coarse linen napkins. A rough ceramic bowl and a likewise rough plate, he sat at the table’s edge. The crockery was fire-hardened and roughly glazed.

Eyeing the uninviting drink offerings, she quietly inquired: “Siri, can you identify the liquids in the two goblets before me?”

Siri answered in an equally low voice. “The yellow beverage is a potent alcoholic product called ‘Bradu’, prepared from citrus, including oranges and grapefruit, with kiwi and lime, if available. The typical alcoholic content of the drink varies from 15 to 25 percent. It would prove intoxicating to a person of your body weight. Care should be taken when consuming the liquid.