Farewell Summer

by Ray Bradbury

  Beside him, rooted to the grass, stood Charlie and Will and Tom.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Will whispered.

  ‘I almost—’ Doug started but Tom interrupted, tears running down his cheeks.

  ‘How come I’m crying?’

  ‘Why would anyone be crying?’ said Will, but his eyes were wet, too. ‘Darn,’ he whispered.

  They heard a creaking sound. From the corner of his eye, Douglas saw a woman go by pushing a carriage in which something struggled and cried.

  Beyond in the afternoon crowd, a pretty woman walked arm in arm with a sailor. Down by the lake a mob of girls played tag, hair flying, leaping, bounding, measuring the sand with swift feet. The girls ran away down the shore and Douglas, hearing their laughter, turned his gaze back to the tent, the entry, and the large strange question mark.

  Douglas started to move back toward the tent, like a sleepwalker.

  ‘Doug?’ said Tom. ‘Where you going? You going back in to look at all that junk again?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why?’ exploded Will. ‘Creepy–looking stuff that someone stuck in old pickle jars. I’m going home. C’mon.’

  ‘You go on,’ said Doug.

  ‘Besides,’ said Will, passing a hand across his forehead, ‘I don’t feel so good. Maybe I’m scared. How about you?’

  ‘What’s to be scared of?’ said Tom. ‘Like you said, it’s just some creepy old stuff.’

  ‘See you later, guys.’ Doug walked slowly to the entryway and stopped in the shadows. ‘Tom, wait for me.’ Doug vanished.

  ‘Doug!’ Tom cried, face pale, shouting into the tent at the tables and jars and alien creatures. ‘Be careful, Doug. Watch out!’

  He started to follow but stopped, shivering, clutching his elbows, gritting his teeth, half in, half out of night, half in, half out of sun.

  III.

  Appomattox

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Suddenly the town was full of girls, girls running here, walking there, going in doors, coming out, girls in the dime store, girls dangling their legs at the soda fountain, girls in mirrors or reflected in windows, stepping off curbs or stepping up, and all of them, all in bright not yet fall, not quite autumn dresses, and all, well maybe not all but almost all, with wind blowing their hair and all with downcast eyes looking to see where their shoes might take them.

  It seemed to happen overnight, this infestation of girls, and Douglas walked through the town as if it were a mirror maze, walked down to the ravine steps and halfway up the jungle path before he realized where he was. From the top of the last rise he could almost see the lake and the sand and the tent with the question mark over the entrance.

  He kept walking and found himself, inexplicably, in Mr Quartermain’s front yard, waiting for he couldn’t say what.

  Quartermain, half–hidden in shadow on the front porch, leaned forward in his rocking chair, creaking the wicker, creaking his bones. For a long moment the old man looked one way, the boy another, until their gazes locked.

  ‘Douglas Spaulding?’ Quartermain said.

  ‘Mr Quartermain?’ asked the boy.

  It was as if they were meeting for the first time.

  ‘Douglas Spaulding.’ This time it was not a question, but a confirmation. ‘Douglas Hinkston Spaulding.’

  ‘Sir.’ And this was not a question from the boy, either. ‘Mr Calvin C. Quartermain.’ And again, ‘Sir.’

  ‘What’re you doing down there, so far out on the lawn?’

  Douglas was surprised. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Why don’t you come up here?’ said Quartermain.

  ‘I’ve got to get home,’ said Douglas.

  ‘No hurry. Why don’t we sort out the sic transits, letting loose the dogs of war, havocs cried, all that.’

  Douglas almost laughed, but found he could not take the first step.

  ‘Look,’ said Quartermain. ‘If I take out my teeth I won’t bite.’ He pantomimed as if removing something from his mouth but stopped, for Douglas was on the first step, and then the second, and finally at the top, where the old man nodded at another rocker.

  Whereupon a remarkable thing took place.

  Even as Douglas sat it seemed that the porch planks sank the merest half inch under his weight.

  Simultaneously, Mr Quartermain felt his wicker seat move up half an inch!

  Then, still further, as Quartermain settled back in his rocker, the porch sank under him.

  And at that precise moment, the chair under Douglas rose silently, a quarter inch.

  So that each, only sensing, only half knowing, felt that he occupied one end of an invisible teeter–totter which, as they spoke quietly, moved up, moved down, first Douglas sinking as Quartermain rose, then Quartermain descending as Douglas imperceptibly lifted – now one up, now down; now the other up, now down; slowly, slowly.

  Now Quartermain high in the soft air of the dying summer, a moment later, Douglas the same.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, son?’

  He’s never called me that before, thought Douglas, and looked at the old man’s face softened with some half–perceived sympathy.

  Quartermain leaned forward.

  ‘Before you ask me whatever you’ve got on your mind, let me ask you something.’

  ‘Sir?’

  The old man’s voice was quiet.

  ‘How old are you?’

  Doug felt the breath sift over his lips.

  ‘Ummm, eighty–one?’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I dunno. I mean. I dunno.’

  At last Douglas added, ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘Well, now,’ said Quartermain.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well, let me see. Twelve?’

  ‘Sir?!’

  ‘Or maybe thirteen would be better?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Teeter up, teeter down.

  ‘Douglas,’ said Quartermain at last, ‘I’d like you to tell me. What’s life all about?’

  ‘My gosh,’ cried Douglas, ‘I was going to ask you that very question!’

  Quartermain pulled back.

  ‘Let’s rock awhile.’

  There was no motion up, no motion down. They held still.

  ‘It’s been a long summer,’ the old man said.

  ‘Seemed like it would never end,’ Doug agreed.

  ‘I don’t think it has. Not yet,’ said Quartermain.

  He reached out to the table beside him and found some lemonade and poured a glass and handed it over. Douglas held the glass and took a small sip. Quartermain cleared his throat and looked at his hands.

  ‘Appomattox.’

  Douglas blinked. ‘Sir?’

  Quartermain looked around at the railings, the boxes of geraniums, and the wicker rockers that he and the boy sat still in.

  ‘Appomattox. You ever heard of that?’

  ‘In school once.’

  ‘The thing is, which one is me, which one is you?’

  ‘Which one what, sir?’

  ‘Lee and Grant, Doug. Grant and Lee. What color uniform are you wearing?’

  Douglas looked down at his sleeves and his pants and his shoes.

  ‘I see you have no better answer than I do,’ observed Quartermain.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. Two tired old generals. Appomattox.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now.’ Cal Quartermain leaned forward so his wicker bones creaked. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘Everything,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Everything?’ Quartermain laughed gently. ‘That’ll take at least ten minutes.’

  ‘How about something?’ said Douglas finally.

  ‘Something? One special thing? Why, Doug, that will take a lifetime. I’ve been at it a while. Everything rolls off my tongue, easy as pie. But something! Something! I get lockjaw just trying to def
ine it. So let’s talk about everything instead, for now. When you finally unhinge your tongue and find one special eternal forever thing of substance, let me know. Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Now, where were we? Life? There’s an everything topic. You want to know all about life?’

  Douglas nodded, head ducked.

  ‘Steel yourself.’

  Douglas looked up and fixed Quartermain with a stare like the sky and all of time waiting.

  ‘Well, to begin …’ He paused and held out his hand for Douglas’s empty glass. ‘You’re going to need this, son.’

  Quartermain poured. Douglas took and drank.

  ‘Life,’ said the old man, and murmured, muttered, and murmured again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Calvin C. Quartermain woke because someone had said something or called out in the night air.

  But that was impossible. Nobody or nothing had.

  He looked out the window at the great face of the courthouse clock and could almost hear it clearing its throat, preparing to announce three in the morning.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Quartermain said into the cool night air.

  Me.

  ‘How’s that again?’ Quartermain lifted his head and peered left and right.

  Me. Remember?

  And now he looked down along the quilt.

  Without moving his hands to touch and find, he knew his old friend was there. A bare subsistence of friend, but still, friend.

  He did not lift his head to peer down along the sheets to the small mound there below his navel, between his legs. It was hardly more than a heartbeat, a pulse, a lost member, a ghost of flesh. But it was there.

  ‘So you’re back?’ he said to the ceiling, and snorted a chopped–off laugh. ‘It’s been a long while.’

  In reply, a soft pulse of recognition.

  ‘How long will you stay?’

  The slender mound beat its own private heart twice, three times, but showed no signs of going anywhere; it seemed it would stay awhile.

  ‘Is this your very last visit?’ asked Quartermain.

  Who can say? was the silent reply of his old friend revisiting, nested in a wirework of ancient hair.

  I do not so much mind my scalp turning gray, Quartermain had once said, but when you find whiteness sprouting down there, to hell with it. Let the rest of me age, but not that!

  But age he did and age it did. He was all of a dead winter grayness now. Still, there was this heartbeat, this tender and incredible pulse saluting him, a promise of spring, a seedbed of memory, a touch of … what was the word out there in the town in this strange weather when everyone’s juices roused again?

  Farewell summer.

  Dear God, yes.

  Don’t go yet. Stay. I need a friend.

  His friend stayed. And they talked. At three in the morning.

  ‘Why do I feel so happy?’ said Quartermain. ‘What’s been going on? Was I mad? Am I cured? Is this the cure?’ Quartermain’s teeth chattered with an outrageous laugh.

  I just came to say goodbye, the voice whispered.

  ‘Goodbye?’ Quarterman’s laughter caught in his throat. ‘Does that mean—’

  It does, came the whisper. It’s been a lot of years. It’s time to move on.

  ‘Time, yes,’ said Quartermain, his eyes watering. ‘Where are you going?’

  Can’t say. You’ll know when the time comes.

  ‘How will I know?’

  You’ll see me. I’ll be there.

  ‘How will I know it’s you?’

  You’ll know. You’ve always known everything, but me above all.

  ‘You’re not leaving town?’

  No, no. I’ll be around. But when you see me, don’t embarrass anyone, all right?

  ‘Of course.’

  The quilt and the sheets under the quilt were lowering, melting to rest. The whisper grew fainter.

  ‘Wherever you go … ‘began Quartermain.

  Yes?

  ‘I wish you a long life, a good life, a happy one.’

  Thank you.

  A pause. Silence. Quartermain found he didn’t know what to say next.

  Goodbye then?

  The old man nodded, his eyes misted with tears.

  His bed, the coverlet, his body was flat as a tabletop. What had been there for seventy years was now totally and completely gone.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Mr Quartermain into the still night air.

  I wonder, he thought, where, oh just where in hell he has gone?

  The great courthouse clock struck three.

  And Mr Quartermain slept.

  Douglas opened his eyes in the dark. The town clock finished the last stroke of three.

  He looked at the ceiling. Nothing. He looked at the windows. Nothing. Only the night breeze fluttered the pale curtains.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he whispered.

  Nothing.

  ‘Someone’s here,’ he whispered.

  And at last he asked again, ‘Who,’ he said, ‘is there?’

  Here, something murmured.

  ‘What?’

  Me, something spoke in the night.

  ‘Who’s me?’

  Here, was the quiet answer.

  ‘Where?’

  Here, quietly.

  ‘Where?’

  And Douglas looked all around and then down.

  ‘There?’

  Yes, oh, yes.

  Down along his body, below his chest, below his navel, between his two hipbones, where his legs joined. There it was.

  ‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

  You’ll find out.

  ‘Where did you come from?’

  A billion years past. A billion years yet to come.

  ‘That’s no answer.’

  It’s the only one.

  ‘Were you …’

  What?

  ‘Were you down in that tent today?’

  What?

  ‘Inside. In those glass jars. Were you?’

  In a way, yes.

  ‘What do you mean, “in a way”?’

  Yes.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  You will, when we get to know each other.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  Give me one. We always have names. Every boy names us. Every man says that name ten thousand times in his life.

  ‘I don’t …’

  Understand? Just lie there. You have two hearts now. Feel the pulse. One in your chest. And one below. Yes?

  ‘Yes.’

  Do you actually feel the two hearts?

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes!’

  Go to sleep then.

  ‘Will you be here when I wake up?’

  Waiting for you. Awake long before you. Good night, friend.

  ‘Are we? Friends?’

  The best you ever had. For life.

  There was a soft rabbit running. Something hit the bed, something burrowed beneath the blankets.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the voice from under the covers. ‘Can I sleep here tonight? Please!’

  ‘Why, Tom?’

  ‘I dunno. I just had this awful feeling tomorrow morning we’d find you gone or dead or both.’

  ‘I’m not going to die, Tom.’

  ‘Someday you will.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Can I stay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Hold my hand, Doug. Hold on tight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You ever think the Earth’s spinning at twenty–five thousand miles per hour or something? It could throw you right off if you shut your eyes and forget to hold on.’

  ‘Give me your hand. There. Is that better?’

  ‘Yeah. I can sleep now. You had me scared there for a while.’

  A moment of silence, breath going in and out.

  ‘Tom?’

 
‘Yeah?’

  ‘You see? I didn’t ditch you, after all.’

  ‘Thank gosh, Doug, oh, thank gosh.’

  A wind came up outside and shook all the trees and every leaf, every last one fell off and blew across the lawn.

  ‘Summer’s over, Tom.’

  Tom listened.

  ‘Summer’s done. Here comes autumn.’

  ‘Halloween.’

  ‘Boy, think of that!’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  They thought, they slept.

  The town clock struck four.

  And Grandma sat up in the dark and named the season just now over and done and past.

  AFTERWORD

  The Importance of Being Startled

  The way I write my novels can best be described as imagining that I’m going into the kitchen to fry a couple of eggs and then find myself cooking up a banquet. Starting with very simple things, they then word-associate themselves with further things until I’m up and running and eager to find out the next surprise, the next hour, the next day or the next week.

  Farewell Summer began roughly fifty-five years ago when I was very young and had no knowledge of novels and no hope of creating a novel that was sensible. I had to wait for years for material to accumulate and take me, unaware, so that as I sat at my typewriter quite suddenly there would be bursts of surprise, resulting in short stories or longer narratives that I then connected together.

  The main action of the novel takes place in a ravine that cut across my life. I lived on a short street in Waukegan, Illinois, and the ravine was immediately east of my home and ran on for several miles in two directions and then circled around to the north and to the south, and finally to the west. So, in effect, I lived on an island where I could, at any time, plunge into the ravine and have adventures.

  There I imagined myself in Africa or on the planet Mars. That being so, and my going through the ravine every day on my way to school, and skating and sledding there in winter, this ravine remained central to my life and so it was natural that it would become the center of this novel, with all of my friends on both sides of the ravine and the old people who were curious time-pieces in my life.

  I’ve always been fascinated by elderly people. They came and went in my life and I followed them and questioned them and learned from them, and that is primarily true in this novel because it is a novel about children and old people who are peculiar Time Machines.