A Bridge of Years

Woe
is me, woe is me!

The
acorn's not yet fallen from the tree

That's
to grow the wood

That's
to make the cradle

That's
to rock the babe

That's
to grow a man

That's
to lay me to my rest.

—
Anonymous,
"The Ghost's Song"

Soon,
the time traveler would face the necessity of his own death.

He
had not taken that decision, however, or even begun to contemplate
its necessity, on the cool spring morning when Billy Gargullo burst
through the kitchen door into the back yard, heavily armed and golden
in his armor.

The
time traveler—whose name was Ben Collier—had begun the slow,
pleasant labor of laying out a garden at the back of the lawn. He had
hammered down stakes and marked the borders with binding twine. Next
to this patch of grass and weed he had placed a shovel, a rake, and a
tilling device called a "garden weasel," which he had found
in a Home Hardware store in the Harbor Mall. Ben was looking forward
to the adventure of the garden. He had never gardened before. He
understood the fundamentals but wasn't certain what might thrive in
this sunny, damp patch of soil. Therefore he had purchased a
random selection of seeds from the hardware store rotary rack,
including corn, radishes, sunflowers, and night-blooming aloe.
In his right hand he held a packet of morning glories, reserved for a
space by the fence, where they'd have something to climb on.

He
had lived alone on this property—two acres of uncultivated
woodland and a three-bedroom frame house—for fifteen years
now. A tiny chunk of time by any reasonable scale, but substantial
when you lived it in sequence. He had arrived at this outpost in
August of the year 1964 and since then he had not held a conversation
more prolonged than the necessary hellos and thank yous directed
at store clerks and delivery people. Occasionally someone would
move into the house down the road, would climb the long hill to
introduce himself, and the time traveler would be friendly in
return . . . but there was something in his manner that discouraged a
second visit. He was an ordinary seeming, round-faced, genial
young man (not as young as he seemed, of course; quite the contrary)
who smiled and wore Levi's and check shirts and short hair and who,
on recollection, would remind you of something superficially pleasant
but somehow disturbing: a pool of water in a forest clearing, say,
where something old and strange might at any moment rise to the
surface.

He
had lived alone all this time. For Ben, it was not an especial
hardship. He had been chosen for his solitary nature and he possessed
hidden resources in advance of contemporary technology: slave
mnemonics, tactile memory, a population of tiny cybernetics. He
wasn't lonely. Nevertheless he was, in a very real sense, alone. He
was a careful and dedicated custodian; but the serenity of the
house and the property occasionally seduced him into lapses of
attention. Sometimes he caught himself daydreaming.

Now,
for instance. Peering into this deep tangle of weeds, he imagined a
garden. Gardening is a kind of time travel, he thought. One invested
labor in the expectation of an altered future. Blank soil yielding
flowers. A trick of time and water and nitrogen and human hands.
These seeds contained their own blooms.

He
looked at the package in his hand.
Heavenly
Blue,
it
said. The picture was impossibly gaudy, a riot of turquoise and
purple Technicolor. As a species, the morning glory had been
endangered for years before his birth. He imagined these flowers
rising along the old, fragrant cedar planks of the fence (cedar:
another casualty). He imagined their blooms in the summer sunlight.
He would step out onto the back porch in the last glimmer of a hot,
dry day, and there they would be, laced into the wood like bright
blue filigree. In the future.

He
was gazing at the package—filled with these thoughts —when the
marauder burst through the kitchen door.

He
had had some warning, subliminal and brief, enough to start him
turning toward the house. He felt it as a disturbance among the
cybernetics, and then as their sudden silence.

The
marauder was dressed in what Ben recognized as military armor of
the late twenty-first century, an armor rooted deep into the body, a
prosthetic armor tied into the nervous system. The marauder would be
very fast, very deadly.

Ben
was not without his own augmentation. As soon as the peripheral image
registered, emergency auxiliaries began to operate. He ducked into
the meager cover of a lilac bush growing at the edge of the lawn,
some few feet from the forest. He had time to wish the lilacs were in
bloom.

He
had time for a number of thoughts. His reflexes were heightened to
the inherent limits of nerve and muscle. His awareness was swift and
effortless. Events slowed to a crawl.

He
looked at the intruder. What he saw was a blur of golden movement,
the momentary shadow of a wrist weapon poised and aimed. Ben couldn't
guess what had brought this man here, but his hostility was obvious,
the threat unquestionable.

Ben
was weaponless. There were weapons hidden in the house, but he would
have to pass by the marauder to reach them.

He
stood up and dodged left, beginning a zigzag course that would take
him to the side of the house and then around to the front, a window
or a door there. As he stood, the marauder fired his weapon.

It
was a primitive but utterly lethal beam weapon, common for its era.
Ben recalled photographs of bodies burned and dismembered beyond
recognition, on a battlefield years from here. As he stood, the beam
scorched air inches from his head; he imagined he could taste the
bright, sour ionization.

Still,
the right sort of armor would have protected him. He possessed such
an item—in the house.

This
was a sustaining thought; but the house was too far, the lawn an
unprotected killing ground. He glimpsed the marauder crouching
to take aim; he ducked and rolled forward, too late. The beam
intersected his left leg and severed it under the knee.

He
felt a brief, terrible burst of pain . . . then numbness as the
damaged nerves shut themselves down. Crippled, Ben fetched up against
a birch stump projecting from the grass. He had been meaning to pull
that stump for years now. The severed portion of his leg—now a
barely recognizable tube of flayed meat—rolled past him. Absurdly,
he wanted to pull it back to himself. But the leg was gone now—past
recovery. He would need a new one.

He
felt briefly dizzy as opened arteries clamped themselves shut.
The gushing of blood from the blackened wound slowed to a trickle.

Clever
programs had been written into the free sequences of his DNA. For
Ben, this was not a deadly injury. A grave impediment, however, it
most certainly was.

He
was helpless here. The birch stump was no cover at all and the
marauder was primed for another shot. Ben lurched forward, grinding
his bloody knee-end into the dirt, hopped two paces and then rolled
again in a drunken tumble that might have succeeded if the marauder
had been aiming by line of sight; but the weapon was equipped with a
target-recognition device and the beam cut twice across Ben's
body—first severing his right hand at the wrist and then slicing
deep into his abdominal cavity. Blood and flame flowered across his
shirt, which he had bought at the Sears in the Harbor Mall.

Now
Ben began to consider dying.

Probably
it was unavoidable. He understood how profoundly damaged he was.
He experienced waves of dizziness as major arteries locked or dilated
in a futile attempt to maintain blood pressure. Numbness spread
upward from his hip to his collarbone: it was like slipping into a
warm bath. He lay on the grass where his momentum had carried him,
loose-jointed and faint.

He
turned his head.

The
marauder stood above him.

His
armor was quite golden, blinding in the sunlight.

The
intruder gazed down at Ben with an expression so absolutely neutral
of emotion that it provoked a pulse of surprise. He doesn't much
care that he's killed me, Ben thought.

The
marauder leveled his wrist weapon one more time, now at Ben's head.

The
weapon was unimpressive, built into the curiously insect-jointed
machinery of the armor. Ben looked past it. Saw a flicker of a smile.

The
marauder fired his weapon.

Most
of the time traveler's head vanished in a steam of bone and tissue.

Billy
Gargullo regarded the time traveler's body with a new and sudden
distaste. Here was not an enemy any longer but something to be
disposed of. A messy nuisance.

He
took the corpse by its good arm and began to drag it into the wooded
land behind the house. This was a long, hot process. The air was cool
but the sun bore down mercilessly. Billy followed a narrow path some
several yards, unnerved by the lushness of this forest. He stopped
where the path curved away to the left. To the right there was a
clearing; in the clearing was a slatboard woodshed, ivy-choked and
abandoned for years.

He
probed the door of the shed. One hinge was missing; the door sagged
inward at a cockeyed angle. Sunlight played into the damp interior.
There were stacks of mildewed newspapers, a few rusty garden
tools, a hovering cloud of gnats.

Billy
wrestled the time traveler—the lacerated meat of his body—into
the sour, earthy shade of the building. His motion caused a tower of
newspapers to tumble over the corpse. The papers thumped wetly down
and Billy grimaced at the sudden reek of mold.

He
stepped back from the door, satisfied. Possibly the body would be
found, but this would deter suspicion at least for a while. He wasn't
planning to spend much time here.

He
paused with one hand on the sun-hot wall of the shed.

There
was a sound behind him, faint but unsettling—a rustle and chatter
in the darkness.

Mice,
Billy thought.

Rats.

Well,
they can have him.
He
closed the door.

Billy's
first shot had blown the package of morning glory seeds out of the
time traveler's hand.

A
stray corner of his beam sliced into the package and scattered its
contents across the lawn. The charred paper— the words
Heavenly
Blue
still
brownly legible—drifted to earth not far from the birch stump where
the time traveler lost his leg. The seeds were dispersed in a wide
curve between the stump and the fence.

Most
were eaten by birds and insects. A few, moistened by the next night's
rainfall, rooted in the lawn and were choked by crabgrass before the
shoots saw light.

Four
of them sprouted in the rich soil alongside the cedar fence.

Three
survived into the summer. The few blossoms they produced were gaudy
by August, but there was no one to see. The grass had grown tall and
the house was empty.

It
would be empty for a few summers more.

It
was a modest three-bedroom frame house with its basement dug a
little deeper than was customary in this part of the country,
pleasant but overgrown with bush and ivy and miles away from town.