A Question of Time d-7

by Fred Saberhagen

  This time she had considered trying to order a small holly plant, or perhaps a potted poinsettia—she supposed there must be a florist available in the Village. But so far she had not made the effort.

  In every year of the more than fifty that had passed since the child's death, Christmas season had been an especially hard time for Sarah. She prayed at every visit to this unmarked grave, and felt that her prayers were heard; yet it bothered her still, that almost furtive unchristian burial in this unconsecrated ground.

  She had certainly baptized the baby before it died, creek water from the Deep Canyon poured from a cupped hand on the small pale forehead, in the time-hallowed private ritual of worried mothers. As indeed Sarah had seen to the more formal baptism of the older girl in church. That had been in California, before she had ever known Edgar Tyrrell…

  Lost in her thoughts, Sarah was not aware at first that she was no longer alone. When the fact was borne in upon her, without her quite understanding how, she turned around quickly.

  Standing a few paces away, watching her from between two oaks, was a brown-bearded man who at first glance appeared to be about thirty years of age. When he saw that she had noticed him, the watcher, in an obvious gesture of respect, touched the broad brim of his hat.

  "Who're you?" Sarah demanded.

  There was no immediate answer, and without giving the man much time she repeated her question, sharply.

  Patiently he responded, "One who would like to be your friend, Sarah. I do not believe that you have ever shared willingly in any of your husband's crimes."

  She drew in her breath sharply. "Sir, my husband has been dead for many years."

  The stranger only shook his head slightly, and showed her the ghost of a smile. "We both know better than that."

  "What do you want? And how do you know my name?" At this point Sarah paused, belatedly becoming aware of some subtle things about her visitor that put her in mind of Edgar. In a different voice she added: "I see that you are…"

  "Yes. I assume you mean that I have certain things in common with your Edgar; indeed I do. My name for the last few days has been Strangeways, but I have had others. Perhaps you have heard of me under another name."

  Sarah nodded slowly. "It is possible that I have." Now she appeared to be frightened.

  "Let me assure you again that I mean you no harm." Her visitor smiled reassuringly, and with a few unhurried steps diminished by half the distance between them. He looked around him, carefully, at their immediate surroundings, the spot that had once been a clearing.

  He said: "I have visited the cemetery near the visitors' center. All who lie there sleep in peace. I had not known till now that another burial ground was here."

  After a pause he added: "But I believe that only one is buried here."

  "Yes. As far as I know, only one. My own child, who died in infancy. But I—I have forgotten exactly where…?" Tears came to Sarah's old eyes. "Perhaps I can help." "I would be—I would be grateful."

  Sarah was silent then, while her companion moved about, pausing every step or two to gaze intently at the snowy ground. Once or twice he tilted his head, as if he were listening intently.

  At last he pointed silently.

  The mother came to the spot and looked at it, then raised her head and looked around again. "Yes," she said then. "Yes. Right here."

  After a brief silence, her companion remarked softly: "I too know what it is to lose a child."

  "Do you?"

  The man nodded abstractedly. He looked about him at the clouded sky. He squinted and momentarily lowered his gaze under the brim of his soft hat, as the sun threatened and then failed to break through. Wind murmured in the pines, and a jay screamed, sounding like a spirit tormented by some primal hunger.

  At last he said: "When I, in God's wisdom, am someday granted the privilege of a permanent grave, I could pray for it to be in some such spot as this."

  Sarah stared at him again. This time she perhaps saw something that, for the moment at least, offered reassurance. Presently she said: "I think that he expected you to come seeking him one day—or someone like you."

  "Indeed? Why?"

  "I never knew. Perhaps it was that he had broken some law of your kind, and his…"

  "From what I have been able to discover about your husband, I should say that he had good cause to fear our law. Our law does not allow killing without just cause, or the keeping of slaves. Or unprovoked theft, a crime I consider particularly reprehensible."

  Sarah stared out over the Canyon. "I make no apologies for Edgar," she said at last. "He had chosen his own life, as we all do. And he will have to accept the consequences. But I wish…"

  Almost half a minute passed before Drakulya asked softly: "What is it that you wish, Sarah?"

  Sarah looked down at the earth again. "That I had some flowers," she said, "to decorate my child's grave."

  Her companion bowed lightly. "Let me see what I can do."

  He had no need to go far, no trouble in locating several specimens of mistletoe, growing low enough to be easily reachable, on one of the nearby oaks. Mistletoe, the parasite ripening in winter, with one pale berry already on the sprig. No trouble to find, to pull a sample from the tree, to bring it back to the still-grieving mother.

  Going down on one knee, with some difficulty, Sarah placed the simple offering on the otherwise completely unmarked grave.

  She accepted the help of a strong arm in getting back to her feet.

  "Now," said Mr. Strangeways. "Will you tell me how the infant died?"

  That was a terrible thing for Sarah to talk about, but eventually she managed.

  "Then you are not sure that the death was your husband's fault?"

  "Not sure, no. I never could be sure. But the doubt—I couldn't stay. I had to get my surviving child away."

  "I see. I understand."

  By silent agreement they had left the unmarked grave behind them now, and were walking slowly back in the direction of paved walks and people.

  Sarah asked: "Are you—working with Mr. Keogh?"

  "I am his colleague, yes."

  "Now I can begin to understand how he expected to be able to help me."

  A few minutes later, Sarah and the old vampire were talking freely, back in the Tyrrell House. There, once a smoldering fire was stirred to life, Sarah could be physically warm and comfortable. For the time being they had the place to themselves.

  Though she felt she could speak more freely now, still her mind was far from easy. "He was a good man once, and I loved him. I came to fear him too—I came to fear him terribly, and sometimes I still do—but for all that I love him still."

  "Have you spoken to him, Sarah, since Cathy disappeared?"

  "Only very briefly, at the house the other night. Nothing you could call a real communication. About all we did was exchange looks, and curses." The old woman's voice was hesitant, but Drakulya thought that she was telling the truth. He could not be absolutely sure. Even after five hundred years he was sometimes wrong.

  Sarah pleaded with Mr. Strangeways to do all he could to help Cathy. "I appeal to you as a man of honor. She is still missing, and I am greatly worried, in spite of what the young man told me."

  "If you appeal to me in such a way, then I must do what I can." He smiled, and patted Sarah's arm. "Is there anything else?"

  "There is another matter, Mr. Strangeways, since you are gentleman enough to ask. I would like, if I could, to protect my nephew from the consequences of his own folly. He is a great fool in many ways, but he is not a vicious man. And he is the only father that Cathy has ever really known."

  Mr. Strangeways frowned.

  "At least—if it is possible—can you protect him from serious harm as long as he remains here in the park?"

  "I do not promise anything."

  "Please."

  "Very well, I will do what I can."

  "Thank you. You are a gentleman."

  Chapter 14

  Jake was
taking the morning off from work, without permission. Dragging with him a numb and resigned Camilla who wore her hat and sunglasses, he had sought a place well away from the house and cave, where he felt they had a chance of being able to talk safely, at least in broad daylight. They had gone down the little canyon, Jake leading the way and looking about him earnestly, until Camilla had asked him what he was looking for.

  "The place where you used to sit drawing. Where we first met."

  She shook her head slowly. "I don't know if we can get there, lover. If we can, it won't do us any good. Why d'you want that place?"

  "I just did." He sighed. "I want a place where we can talk."

  Camilla repeated what she had already told Jake several times: that during the hours of daylight they could talk freely anywhere, that Edgar was sure to be in his daytime refuge at this hour. But Jake still had a hard time freeing himself from the idea that the old man was likely to be in hiding, listening to them, anytime and anyplace.

  At last, reaching an area that looked familiar, Camilla and Jake sat down side by side on a rock, right on the edge of the creek, whose voices today were only noise for Jake.

  As soon as they were seated, he said: "I can't take it, Cam, watching him do that to you."

  "How do you think I feel?"

  "I don't know." He turned his head to gaze at her steadily. "When I was watching the two of you last night, it looked to me like maybe you were enjoying yourself."

  "That's a rotten thing to say."

  He was silent.

  "There's only one way we can get out of this, Jake."

  "I know. That's what I came out here to talk about."

  "I guess I know what that one way is. I guess you've already told me. And you're right, but I'm still afraid."

  Jake didn't want to speak. He couldn't shake the feeling that the old man was just waiting behind a rock somewhere, listening to them, ready to pounce.

  "You know as well as I do, Jake. The only way to get ourselves out of here is—"

  "Is."

  "—is to kill him."

  The words had been said again. Nobody pounced.

  "Kill him. Then we'll have time to think, to look around, to find our way."

  Camilla unpacked her sketch pad and some pencils. It was as if she had to do something with her hands. Now, at the same spot where Jake had first met Camilla, he once more watched her draw. They had a lot of planning to do, but neither of them said anything for a time.

  She was wearing her hat and sunglasses, but still, after a little while, she had to move closer to the cliffs, seeking the shade. It seemed to Jake that she was growing ever more sensitive to the sun.

  "Cam."

  "What is it?"

  She had turned her head toward him, and he stared at her mouth, her slightly parted lips. "Nothing, I guess. Just now I thought there was something funny about your teeth."

  Slowly, somehow, the real planning started between them.

  In all her months of living with Tyrrell, listening to him talk and observing him, Camilla had come, or believed that she had come, to understand not only the horror of the man but something of his weaknesses.

  Jake with a conscious effort was building up his nerve. "All right, I'm ready to kill the son of a bitch. Truth to tell, I've been ready for some time. Now tell me how. How're we going to kill him?"

  Camilla needed only a few seconds to think—as if she had already asked herself this question. "There's only one time—maybe two times—I've ever seen him hurt."

  "Tell me."

  "First time was only a little while after I moved in, when he got a wooden splinter in his hand, from the handle of one of his tools."

  "That hurt him, huh?"

  "More than a shotgun charge could do. He started to suck the blood out himself, after he pulled the splinter out—then he saw me watching him—then he got me to—

  Jake could all too readily visualize her, sucking blood. He made an effort to blot the picture out.

  Camilla shivered. From the look on her face now, Jake guessed that she'd found the act exciting also. She smiled sheepishly at Jake.

  "What was the other time?" he asked.

  "What…?"

  "You said that twice you've seen him hurt."

  "Oh. Well, he wasn't really hurt the other time… but he looked mighty uncomfortable. He was up late one morning, when the day dawned really cloudy. Then a hole opened up in the clouds suddenly, and the sun came through… Edgar looked sick for a moment, he looked really scared."

  "Huh."

  "And the next second he was gone. Not to the place where he always sleeps, but back into the cave. He spent that day in the cave with the lights out, making it as dark as he could. After sunset he came out, looking—tired. He'll never take a chance of getting himself caught out in bright sunlight."

  For a moment they stared at each other.

  Jake said at last: "No way we can make him do that."

  "Doesn't seem like it, does it?"

  Jake squinted at her. Presently he asked: "What about fire?"

  Camilla had to think longer on this point; perhaps it was a new idea to her. At last she reported that Tyrrell was at least not indifferent to fire. "I can't remember seeing him stick his hand in flames, anything like that."

  "Then let's figure fire is something we might try."

  Another hour of discussion brought no great enlightenment. There seemed to the two young breathers to be three possible means by which they might accomplish their oppressor's destruction: wooden weapons, fire, or sunlight.

  "There's another thing I'm worried about, Jake."

  "What's that?"

  "What if I got—pregnant?"

  "Jesus. Are you?"

  "I don't think so, but—he asked if I was. That last time we were—we were in the back of the cave."

  Jake was silent, pondering. Maybe this didn't actually make his own situation any worse, but he didn't like it.

  "And he was listening to me," Camilla said.

  "Listening? What?"

  "Listening. Putting his ear against my belly."

  "Can he tell that way?"

  "Said he couldn't be sure. If I was, it was too early to be sure."

  "Anyway, what does the old man care if you're pregnant or not?"

  "I don't know! I—don't—know!"

  Jake took her in his arms. What began with the giving of mutual comfort and reassurance soon turned into passion.

  When Camilla opened her mouth to cry out in pleasure, Jake recoiled with horror, rolling away from her.

  "Jake, what happened? What is it?"

  "It's—your teeth. They were—they looked like—"

  She sat up, her eyes wild with fear, her hands to her mouth.

  In the afternoon, Jake returned to work in the cave, digging and sweating and breaking rock, gathering the precious nodules. Somewhat to his own surprise, he found that he still wanted to work. That he was doing a good job, even taking pride in the fact.

  That evening, back in the cottage, Camilla found Jake standing in the child's bedroom, contemplating the stuffed animal, and the forlorn lunch box.

  "What're you doing, lover?"

  "Thinking. Trying to think. But not getting anywhere." He pulled open the door to the bedroom closet. There on a shelf was the small clock that no one ever wound, that no longer ran. A metal box, inconspicuous, sat on the same shelf. Jake took it down and opened it.

  Old papers and old photographs, looking like the kind of stuff that any family might save, but here somehow out of place.

  Camilla was alarmed. "Better put that back, Jake. Tyrrell doesn't like either of us in this room, let alone going through his things."

  Jake riffled through the stuff in the box, saw nothing that caught his interest, closed it, and put it back up on the shelf. "How come this house has a kid's room in it, anyway?"

  Camilla took him by the arm, tugging him out of the room. She said: "Looks to me like his wife must have had a little girl."
>
  Jake let himself be tugged. He tried to picture Tyrrell as a father. Oddly, it seemed possible.

  Back in the main room of the house, Jake sat looking at the calendar on the kitchen wall, which still maintained that this was June of 1932.

  Camilla saw him staring at the calendar. "What year was it, Jake? When you came in here?"

  Jake turned his staring gaze on her. "Whaddya mean what year was it? This is nineteen thirty-five. I came in here only—a few days ago." The frightening thought returned that maybe it really had been a month. Maybe even longer. Raising a hand, he rubbed his chin; it was quite definitely bearded now.

  He demanded: "What year did Tyrrell bring you in? Last year? Nineteen thirty-four?"

  "Jake, you're wrong by thirty years. Thirty-one. I met him in Flagstaff in nineteen sixty-five."

  Tyrrell, as far as his two breathing victims could determine, was practically indifferent to time—or if he kept time, it was only by some method of his own.

  Jake noticed, however, that the old man was usually willing to talk about time. In fact it was one subject on which he tended to speak compulsively. Time, he once told Jake, hardly mattered to him, as long as he felt confident of being able to access the mundane world in at least the approximate era that he wanted.

  Jake and Camilla continued sharing the house and the single adult bed. But only in the hours of daylight, shortly after dawn or before sunset, did they any longer make love, with a passion that had grown fierce and somehow hopeless.

  Few nights passed during which the master did not summon Camilla to accompany him into the cave.

  Once when Jake, driven by anguish, dared to demand a reason, the old man said with a wicked laugh that he wanted her to model for him.

  Jake, knowing what he would see if he followed the pair, now usually remained in the house when Camilla was summoned. For hours he paced restlessly from one room to another, on the verge of doing something desperate—and more than likely suicidal.

  Eventually, after an hour or so, Camilla would return to him. And now she refused to talk at all about what had happened between her and Tyrrell.