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 |  All the GoT stuff, 2024. |
| Raiding History “Why do I have to wear the silly clothes?” asked Hubert. Professor Mannerly continued to make adjustments to the controls to the machine standing in the corner of the laboratory. Without looking up at his assistant, he answered, “To fit in with the period. They’re the normal sort of things worn by an Anglo Saxon freeman in the ninth century. Anything else would make you stand out like a sore thumb. “Fade into the background, that’s what you’ll need to do. And, for pete’s sake, stay away from any chance of being spoken to. I don’t suppose you’ve been keeping up with your lessons on the language, have you, Hubert?” “Well, no. I…” But the Professor was still talking while he fiddled with the fine tuning of some arcane dial on the control panel. “I can only give you twenty-four hours there so you’ll have to work quickly. Don’t take any risks, however. I’d rather you got back safe and sound than to have to wonder forever what happened to you. There’ll be plenty more expeditions after this one. If it’s too difficult to pick something up, just leave it.” “I’ll do me best, Professor,” said Hubert. “I do know a few words of Anglo Saxon, like hello and goodbye, yes and no, so I should be able to get by if I’m asked a question.” “I doubt they’d do anything drastic anyway, even if they did think you a bit strange. Most likely dismiss you as a madman and give you a wide berth. Just be careful, that’s what I’m saying.” “Will do, Professor. These clothes don’t half itch, however. Why do they have to be so scratchy and all?” The Professor seemed to have completed his preparations for he looked up at the assistant. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. It’s the materials that they wore at the time and I know they’re a bit coarse. But the artefacts, Hubert, they’re different. It was the golden age of English art and their jewellery and weapons and the like were really exquisite. Pick a few of those up and we’ll be rich. But even the common stuff is fetching a good price these days. The Dark Ages are becoming popular, Hubert.” “Well, maybe with them that hasn’t gotta go there,” grumbled Hubert. Mannerly shook his head. “Now, Hubert, don’t start that again. We’ve been through it all before and it’s what I pay you for, after all.” Hubert looked at the floor. “Not much, you don’t,” he muttered. “All in good time," said the Professor cheerily. “I’ve promised you a raise if we’re successful.” So Hubert was strapped into the machine, the Professor pressed and pulled all the necessary handles and levers, and his assistant dematerialised from the machine. Mannerly allowed himself a cigar and a rest in his armchair before starting to work on the settings to pull Hubert back in twenty-four hour’s time. He could, of course, have done it immediately, but preferred to experience the real time involved along with Hubert. The man deserved that, at least, since he was the one taking all the physical risk. And Hubert arrived in a place he recognised as England’s green and pleasant land, not far from a little village that, if his calculations of the Professor’s house address and positioning were correct, would be the centre of Orpington in Hubert’s time. He began the walk through the fields toward it. The houses, quaint affairs of wattle and daub on timber frames under thatched roofs, were clustered rather haphazardly round an open space with a tavern and a mill pond. On the green, a market was in progress, buzzing with activity, animal noises, and the chatter of conversation in a language that sounded very unfamiliar to Hubert. The place was packed with people dressed very much as Hubert was. He decided to mingle but say nothing, whatever happened. In the event, he need not have worried. Everyone was far too involved with their own concerns and Hubert was able to wander through, looking at the wares available in various stalls and tables. There was plenty that could sell for a decent amount in Hubert’s world, but no chance at all of “borrowing” any of it. There were too many people about for that. At the far end of the market, Hubert saw a little stone church standing a way off on its own. Now there, he realised, was a potential source of some pretty valuable things. If he waited until nightfall, he could be in and out of the place very quickly, and then it would heigh-ho for the nineteenth century. He found a suitably hidden spot under a hedge and waited for the sun to go down. As the shadows lengthened, an idea came to him. Instead of taking things back with him, he could bury them here and then return to the place in his own time. Then time would have worked its magic and the process of ageing the items done for him. So it was that midnight found him digging a hole in a carefully chosen and calculated spot in the churchyard. The church would be rebuilt, he knew that, but its position would remain the same. The jewelled cross and several precious receptacles were buried in the satchel he had brought to hold his findings and then Hubert set off across the fields to the interception point. All went well and he arrived back in the professor’s laboratory as expected. Mannerly was there, rubbing his hands with glee and demanding to see what Hubert had brought. And Hubert explained. Mannerley’s face went white as he listened. There was silence when Hubert had finished. Then the professor spoke in a hoarse and high-pitched voice. “I was reading the paper over breakfast this morning. It seems that the grave digger at Orpington church dug up an Anglo Saxon hoard near the church yesterday. Right there in the graveyard. “They say it’s worth millions.” House Martell Word count: 997 For "Game of Thrones"  The North Remembers, Stolen Artifacts Prompt 8Prompt: In the nineteenth century, there’s a thriving trade in stolen archeological artifacts. Write a story from the perspective of an annoyed, minimum-wage employee whose job is travelling back in time to obtain otherwise unobtainable artifacts, then has to bring them back to the present (the 1800s, that is) and artificially age them before they will sell. |
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