A Question Of Time Fred Saberhagen (reading the story of the .TXT) 📖

at the ground, in what might have been one of the prettiest spots of all the pretty spots on the South Rim. The size and position of the live trees and visible stumps suggested that this scene had been a clearing fifty years ago. Now it was wooded with a second growth of piñon and oak.

* * *

      Sarah had not visited this spot for decades, and now, having reached it after some uncertain searching, she stood looking about her sadly. The truth was that the exact location of the grave of her younger child was no longer easy for her to pinpoint with any confidence. A distinctively twisted pine, growing on the very rim, had served her for decades as a secret landmark, but it was gone now, not even a stump remaining. Perhaps even a few feet of the rim itself at the tree’s location were missing now. Even the Canyon changed with time.

      Still, enough local landmarks in the way of massive rocks endured to let Sarah feel confident that she was at least within a few yards of the right place.

      Her uncertainty was made worse by the fact that she had visited this place no more than half a dozen times in all the years since she’d left Edgar. Whenever her preceding visits had been in spring or summer she had unobtrusively brought flowers. There had been no way to do that unobtrusively now, on this dull winter afternoon. She supposed that if she tried she would be able to buy them at the gift shop or the general store, or order them delivered from somewhere outside the Park. That last, she thought, would draw too much attention. Sarah still had her reasons for wanting secrecy, and she clung to them—though sometimes she doubted they were valid.

      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 sought out the exact place. He 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