Columbus Day
Oct. 10th, 2011 11:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolThere were sails on the horizon. The bronze-skinned man watched them get larger. He was small and thin, and he wore very little. He carried no weapons, but he had a braided fishing line around his waist with an ugly bone hook reefed to the end. He was, in short, an absolutely historically accurate indigenous Bahamian, with one important exception. He plainly could see the sails, and he knew what they were.
The small man stood at the shore and serenely watched the ships approach. There were three of them, he could make that out now. A great sense of purpose and fulfillment came over him. The man watched Christopher Columbus and his small fleet approach their first landfall in the new world.
"That's beautiful, man," said a boy in a feathered headdress, wading partway into the surf. He had a Coors Xtra in his hand. "Christopher motherfucking Columbus." He whooped and waved his beer in the air; it sloshed slightly. The bronze-skinned man frowned.
"You're ruining it," he hissed. "You people always ruin it."
"Ruin what?" The boy swigged his beer and looked down at himself. "Hey, man; I am *totally* dressed like an Indian."
"The complete wrong kind, unfortunately," sneered the more authentic man. "I mean, couldn't you even be bothered to do a *little* research? I can't believe they deregulated time travel!"
"Screw you, man," said the young man, downing his beer and throwing the bottle into the ocean. "It's a free timestream. You don't like my way, pick another modal node and check out the landing there."
"I did," whined the historian. "They're all the same. Everybody…."
He didn't get to finish his sentence. One of the tourists crested the sand ridge and pointed out to sea. "Hey, everybody!" he bellowed, his floral print shirt flapping in the sea breeze. "They're coming! The Pinta Maria and the others are about to land!"
A gaggle of shrieking, excited time travelers ran out of the palm trees and down to the surf. "You're ruining it!" shrieked the historian, although nobody was listening. "You people are completely ruining it!"
Two men carried an inflatable raft down to the water's edge. They were dressed as pirates. They began to paddle sloppily out to sea. Other less-prepared tourists begged to hitch a ride but were left stranded on the shore. The historian crouched in the sand and buried his face in his hands.
"Why do they have to do this?" he sobbed. "Why can't they just leave it alone?"
Somebody prodded the historian rudely in the butt with the toe of a flip-flop. It was the boy in the headdress. "Dude," the boy said aggressively, "you are totally pissing me off. Nobody is jacking with you, so why don't you just shut the hell up?"
"History has an aesthetic!" shouted the man in authentic garb, rising to his feet so suddenly that the boy recoiled. "I just… I just wanted to have a genuine historical moment; to experience things a little bit like the way they really happened. That's all." He swept a despairing arm across the raucous crowd. Some of them were setting off bottle-rockets, the noise of which could undoubtedly be heard out on the ships. Two jokesters had unfurled a large banner reading WELCOME TO INDIA and were trying to figure out how to suspend it from the trees. "But I can't do it," said the historian. "I can never do it. Because of… this."
"What, people having a good time?" demanded the boy. "You can't do the past over again. Shit, everybody learns that in elementary school. Once somebody from the future touches it, it's not the past anymore, by definition. So the very fact that you're here screws it all up. Even if you were the only guy here – which you're not – and even if you got every damned detail of Indian-ness right – which I bet you didn't – it still wouldn't be the past. So quit fronting, you smug jackass."
A woman came down the shore pushing a cart. She was selling pizza by the slice, little Leaning Towers of Pisa, and American flags – the old ones, with thirteen stars in a circle or fifty stars in a rectangle. Further down the beach, some people were playing volleyball. Somewhere out of sight, somebody set off an air horn. The historian choked back a sob.
"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "I was rude to you earlier. I didn't mean it. I'm just really disappointed."
The boy was taken aback. "Hey. I mean, that's okay," he said, all anger having drained out of him. He and the historian watched a large family roll an enormous Styrofoam boulder down to the water's edge.
"Hey, what's that supposed to be?" the boy asked.
"Plymouth Rock," several of the family's children replied in unison.
"That's pretty clever," the boy admitted. "I wonder where the real Plymouth Rock is."
"Plymouth," the historian said hollowly.
"Oh yeah," said the boy.
The ships were taking in sail, perhaps rethinking the wisdom of making landfall at so bizarre a spot. As they did so, a Viking longship pulled around the shoulder of the cay and made for the beach. A fellow with long red hair and a megaphone was taunting the Italian ships from the aft deck. "I'M WINNING!" he crowed. "DO YOU SEE ME, COLUMBUS? I'M TOTALLY BEATING YOU!"
"I've seen enough," said the historian. He plodded heavily back up the beach to recover his belongings, which he had hid under a plaswrap sheet buried under six inches of sand. The boy with the headdress tagged along.
"Look, man," said the boy. "I'm really sorry you didn't get your historical experience. That sounds like that might have been pretty cool."
"Yeah," said the historian wearily. "Pretty cool."
"Well," said the boy, "maybe you could try another node and get lucky. Like, maybe the selector could throw you into one that nobody else got. Then you could get closer to what you want to find."
The historian picked up his satchel sadly. It slipped a little, landing on its side in the sand, and some of its contents spilled out of the unlaced top. There were a handful of dog-eared books, the kind made of paper, with words and printed pictures. The boy frowned. The pictures didn't look right on one of them. He stooped to grab it before the historian could recover it.
"'A Slave for Master'?" the boy hooted. "Bondage porn? Really?"
The authentic man snatched it away. "None of your business," he mumbled.
"Oh, I get it now," said the boy confidently. "You wanted your 'real historical experience' to consist of being captured by Columbus and brought back to Europe, so you could get your sick rocks off. That is some sad shit right there, my man."
"You'd never understand," muttered the historian. He reached into his bag, toggled his ReturnCube and vanished.
A series of loud explosions and screams came from down the beach. The boy sighed. That could only be the crew of U-41. The boy hated all time-griefers. There was no need to insist on historical accuracy, but people who went to important events just to blow stuff up were the timestream's worst sort of asshole.
The boy walked away from the landing site and towards the tourist tent encampment. Maniacal U-boaters or no, there would certainly be a party going on back there. He could speak a little Italian, and if previous Columbus Days were any guide, that should be enough to get him laid. He ducked into the nearest tent bar and raised a palm in salute.
"How!" he shouted. "And arrivaderci!"
The small man stood at the shore and serenely watched the ships approach. There were three of them, he could make that out now. A great sense of purpose and fulfillment came over him. The man watched Christopher Columbus and his small fleet approach their first landfall in the new world.
"That's beautiful, man," said a boy in a feathered headdress, wading partway into the surf. He had a Coors Xtra in his hand. "Christopher motherfucking Columbus." He whooped and waved his beer in the air; it sloshed slightly. The bronze-skinned man frowned.
"You're ruining it," he hissed. "You people always ruin it."
"Ruin what?" The boy swigged his beer and looked down at himself. "Hey, man; I am *totally* dressed like an Indian."
"The complete wrong kind, unfortunately," sneered the more authentic man. "I mean, couldn't you even be bothered to do a *little* research? I can't believe they deregulated time travel!"
"Screw you, man," said the young man, downing his beer and throwing the bottle into the ocean. "It's a free timestream. You don't like my way, pick another modal node and check out the landing there."
"I did," whined the historian. "They're all the same. Everybody…."
He didn't get to finish his sentence. One of the tourists crested the sand ridge and pointed out to sea. "Hey, everybody!" he bellowed, his floral print shirt flapping in the sea breeze. "They're coming! The Pinta Maria and the others are about to land!"
A gaggle of shrieking, excited time travelers ran out of the palm trees and down to the surf. "You're ruining it!" shrieked the historian, although nobody was listening. "You people are completely ruining it!"
Two men carried an inflatable raft down to the water's edge. They were dressed as pirates. They began to paddle sloppily out to sea. Other less-prepared tourists begged to hitch a ride but were left stranded on the shore. The historian crouched in the sand and buried his face in his hands.
"Why do they have to do this?" he sobbed. "Why can't they just leave it alone?"
Somebody prodded the historian rudely in the butt with the toe of a flip-flop. It was the boy in the headdress. "Dude," the boy said aggressively, "you are totally pissing me off. Nobody is jacking with you, so why don't you just shut the hell up?"
"History has an aesthetic!" shouted the man in authentic garb, rising to his feet so suddenly that the boy recoiled. "I just… I just wanted to have a genuine historical moment; to experience things a little bit like the way they really happened. That's all." He swept a despairing arm across the raucous crowd. Some of them were setting off bottle-rockets, the noise of which could undoubtedly be heard out on the ships. Two jokesters had unfurled a large banner reading WELCOME TO INDIA and were trying to figure out how to suspend it from the trees. "But I can't do it," said the historian. "I can never do it. Because of… this."
"What, people having a good time?" demanded the boy. "You can't do the past over again. Shit, everybody learns that in elementary school. Once somebody from the future touches it, it's not the past anymore, by definition. So the very fact that you're here screws it all up. Even if you were the only guy here – which you're not – and even if you got every damned detail of Indian-ness right – which I bet you didn't – it still wouldn't be the past. So quit fronting, you smug jackass."
A woman came down the shore pushing a cart. She was selling pizza by the slice, little Leaning Towers of Pisa, and American flags – the old ones, with thirteen stars in a circle or fifty stars in a rectangle. Further down the beach, some people were playing volleyball. Somewhere out of sight, somebody set off an air horn. The historian choked back a sob.
"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "I was rude to you earlier. I didn't mean it. I'm just really disappointed."
The boy was taken aback. "Hey. I mean, that's okay," he said, all anger having drained out of him. He and the historian watched a large family roll an enormous Styrofoam boulder down to the water's edge.
"Hey, what's that supposed to be?" the boy asked.
"Plymouth Rock," several of the family's children replied in unison.
"That's pretty clever," the boy admitted. "I wonder where the real Plymouth Rock is."
"Plymouth," the historian said hollowly.
"Oh yeah," said the boy.
The ships were taking in sail, perhaps rethinking the wisdom of making landfall at so bizarre a spot. As they did so, a Viking longship pulled around the shoulder of the cay and made for the beach. A fellow with long red hair and a megaphone was taunting the Italian ships from the aft deck. "I'M WINNING!" he crowed. "DO YOU SEE ME, COLUMBUS? I'M TOTALLY BEATING YOU!"
"I've seen enough," said the historian. He plodded heavily back up the beach to recover his belongings, which he had hid under a plaswrap sheet buried under six inches of sand. The boy with the headdress tagged along.
"Look, man," said the boy. "I'm really sorry you didn't get your historical experience. That sounds like that might have been pretty cool."
"Yeah," said the historian wearily. "Pretty cool."
"Well," said the boy, "maybe you could try another node and get lucky. Like, maybe the selector could throw you into one that nobody else got. Then you could get closer to what you want to find."
The historian picked up his satchel sadly. It slipped a little, landing on its side in the sand, and some of its contents spilled out of the unlaced top. There were a handful of dog-eared books, the kind made of paper, with words and printed pictures. The boy frowned. The pictures didn't look right on one of them. He stooped to grab it before the historian could recover it.
"'A Slave for Master'?" the boy hooted. "Bondage porn? Really?"
The authentic man snatched it away. "None of your business," he mumbled.
"Oh, I get it now," said the boy confidently. "You wanted your 'real historical experience' to consist of being captured by Columbus and brought back to Europe, so you could get your sick rocks off. That is some sad shit right there, my man."
"You'd never understand," muttered the historian. He reached into his bag, toggled his ReturnCube and vanished.
A series of loud explosions and screams came from down the beach. The boy sighed. That could only be the crew of U-41. The boy hated all time-griefers. There was no need to insist on historical accuracy, but people who went to important events just to blow stuff up were the timestream's worst sort of asshole.
The boy walked away from the landing site and towards the tourist tent encampment. Maniacal U-boaters or no, there would certainly be a party going on back there. He could speak a little Italian, and if previous Columbus Days were any guide, that should be enough to get him laid. He ducked into the nearest tent bar and raised a palm in salute.
"How!" he shouted. "And arrivaderci!"
