Time Echoes

by Bryan Davis

  I got out and opened the back door on Clara’s side. While I helped her exit, Dr. Gordon opened the opposite door. He offered Kelly a hand, but she just glared at him as she got out on her own and marched around the car, her sweatshirt now covering her dirty polo. Daryl gave him a similar glare.

  When we gathered on the cemetery lawn, I backed away. “I’ll see you under the canopy.”

  As I turned to go, Kelly waved. “I’ll get your violin.”

  I spun back. “I won’t need it.”

  “We should bring everything with us, just in case.”

  “She’s right,” Dr. Gordon said as he pressed a button on his key fob. “Except for the shotgun.” A muffled chime sounded. He pulled a phone from his pocket and waved. “Go on ahead. I will meet you there.”

  I jogged along the pavement toward the hearses while brushing off my dirty, smelly shirt. As I passed by the rows of tombstones, I tried to read the engravings but could catch only a couple of names — Phillips and Madison.

  Just hours ago, the stone slabs would have meant nothing, mere decorations to be ignored, but now the terrified faces of the airline passengers gnawed at my mind. Who could tell? Any one of these stones might be marking the grave of one of those victims. Since this was a huge cemetery in the western Chicago suburbs, that wouldn’t be a stretch.

  As I continued, I passed a bearded man kneeling at a gravesite. He looked a lot like Jack, one of the survivors from the Earth Yellow plane crash, but that was impossible, of course. He held a crumpled hat against his lips as he bowed his head and stroked the marker’s curved top, weeping. I sighed. Such a portrait of grief. This miserable man poured out his heart over a loved one, now an empty shell, gone forever.

  At that moment I vowed never to ignore a tombstone again. Each one told a story of tragedy, at least to some poor soul left behind.

  When I neared the hearses, a thin man in a black suit opened the trailing hearse’s back door, revealing a coffin.

  “Are you the funeral director?” I asked as I came to a stop. “I’m Nathan Shepherd.”

  “I am,” he said in a calm, soothing voice. “We were quite concerned about you.”

  I gazed at my reflection on the coffin’s polished black surface. Nausea twisted my stomach. A body lay within, either Mom or Dad. “The car quit working so I had to hitch a ride.”

  “I see. Did you try to fix the automobile yourself? Your clothes are quite disheveled.”

  “No.” I smoothed out my shirt. “I had other problems.”

  The director shed his dark jacket and reached it toward me. “Please borrow this.”

  I allowed him to help me put it on. The sleeves fell past the heels of my hands, but the shoulders felt good — loose, but not too loose.

  The director touched the coffin with a fingertip. “This is your mother. The other hearse carries your father.” He signaled for the other men who were milling around near the graveside tent. “Your tutor selected these gentlemen from among your father’s clients and your mother’s orchestra friends. If you wish to renew your acquaintance with them, we can delay the proceedings further.”

  I scanned the faces of the approaching pallbearers. None resembled Dr. Gordon. “No. It’s okay. Maybe I can talk to them afterward.”

  “Certainly.” While two dark-suited men pulled the coffin out on a gurney, the director stationed the pallbearers around the coffin, setting me at the front and on Mom’s left. “Your tutor designated this position,” the director said, “closest to the heart of your mother.”

  I shuddered. The reality of the funeral sent a painful jolt through every nerve. My arms shook, and my knees weakened. Mom was inside that box, her dead body torn at the throat by a sadistic murderer.

  I clutched the brass handle with my left hand and laid my trembling fingertips on the coffin’s smooth lid. As if emanating from the polished surface, a tingle passed through my hand, the same hand Mom breathed on before every performance.

  Mom’s words flowed to mind as if blown there by the refreshing breeze, reciting the lovely phrases I had heard so many times.

  When I breathe on your hand, I whisper a prayer that the breath of God will fill your soul with his music, the melody of everlasting love that guided our savior to the ultimate sacrifice. Because such love lasts forever, I know, my son, that we will be together through all eternity.

  My heart raced. Tears dripped down my cheeks. Then, a warm grip rested on my shoulder. “Nathan, are you all right?”

  I turned toward the familiar voice. Dr. Malenkov stood next to me, his expression sad. “You’re here,” I said.

  “Yes, of course. I thought you saw me earlier.”

  “I was looking for someone else. Are you playing something for the funeral?”

  He patted me on the back. “Yes, yes. It is a great honor, yet a tragic occasion.”

  “What piece did you choose?”

  “The Vivaldi duet, an arrangement I created that allows me to play it as a solo. Your mother’s part fades away at the end while yours finishes strong.”

  I swallowed through a tight catch in my throat. “That … sounds great.”

  “You are welcome to join me. I can play your mother’s part in the old arrangement.”

  “No. I don’t think I could handle it.”

  “Very well. I will be on the other side of the coffin. I feel blessed that I was called to this task, yet heartbroken that my daughter left the earth before I did.” He walked to his place and grasped a handle.

  When the director gave a signal, we lifted the coffin and marched toward the burial site. As we approached, a woman standing under the canopy raised a violin and began playing Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”

  I sighed. This violinist was good, quite good, in fact. But she wasn’t Mom. As the woman washed out a note that needed to be played with the precision of a musical surgeon, I cringed. Oh, how I longed to play with Mom. Just one more time. But it couldn’t be. Never again.

  I glanced at Nikolai. Tears streamed down the old man’s cheeks, following deep lines traced there by years of loving care. He, too, probably wept for lost days — future days he had hoped to play with his favorite pupil as he awaited his own passing into eternity, as well as days in the past he once shared during peaceful bedtime songs and rousing morning lessons. This sad old man had more treasured memories, perhaps a greater loss than I. He had lost a daughter, once given to him as the result of a tragic murder, now taken away because of a devil’s wicked hand.

  I firmed my chin. This occasion, though solemn and tragic, deserved the best music possible. If Nikolai could do it, I could do it.

  As we passed under the canopy, I scanned the audience, about twenty-five or thirty men and women clad in various shades of gray and black, sitting or standing among at least eighty metal chairs divided in half by an aisle down the center. Why so few? Hadn’t Clara let all our orchestra friends know about the funeral? Or had the news about fast-moving blizzards scared them away? A graveyard wasn’t exactly a place people wanted to go during a time of fear.

  After setting Mom’s coffin next to a huge display of flowers, I turned toward the array of chairs. Clara, Kelly, and Daryl sat in the second row, one row in front of Dr. Gordon.

  I strode across the fifteen-or-so feet between the coffin and the front row and whispered, “Kelly. I need Mom’s violin.”

  She lifted the case from her lap. “Right now?”

  “When I get back with Dad’s coffin.”

  I walked toward the second hearse with the other pallbearers. Dr. Gordon joined our group, but why? He hadn’t mentioned doing that. I scanned his face, but since he walked to my left, I couldn’t see if there was a cut on his left cheek. I then glanced back at the audience. His chair was empty.

  As we closed in on the other hearse, I leaned toward him. “Dr. Gordon?”

  “Yes, Nathan?” He kept his face forward, not allowing me to check his other side.

  “You didn’t say you were going to b
e a pallbearer.”

  “It was a last-minute decision. One of the other pallbearers fell ill.” He turned and pointed at his left cheek, unmarred by a wound. “I sense that you need to see this to allay your fears.”

  I studied his face. He had to be Gordon Red, but something strange was going on. The sudden changes spelled trouble, but how could I investigate them? I just had to keep going through the funeral motions with both eyes open. Mictar lurked somewhere behind the scenes, and I had to find him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The director arranged us around Dad’s coffin. With the head of the casket pointing toward the canopy, he guided me to the front handle on the left side. “Your tutor said you needed to be at your father’s right hand. You were his stalwart helper and never failed in your efforts to come to his aid.”

  I grasped the handle and gazed at the coffin. My fingers were inches away from Dad’s right shoulder. How many times had he touched my shoulder to give me comfort or encouragement? He lifted me more times than I could count. And now I had to lift him, only to lower him into the earth where he would rest in silence, never to encourage me again.

  Walking quickly, we carried the coffin to the gravesite and placed it next to Mom’s. As we set it down, one of the men bumped a partition behind the flowers. Covered with a white sheet, the partition shook, sending the sheet falling to the ground and exposing a mirror identical to the one in my room, complete with divider lines separating the individual squares. The reflection seemed normal, at least for the time being, showing only lush flowers and the seated audience.

  As the other pallbearers filed to their seats, I glanced at the lower left-hand corner of the odd backdrop. A square was missing. Was this really the mirror from my room, or had someone transported it from Earth Blue?

  Turning to the mourners, I found Clara in the second-row aisle seat. My mirror lay in her lap, angled toward me, allowing a view of the reflective surface. Across the aisle and three rows back sat a man with a familiar bearded face, the same man who was weeping at a gravesite moments ago. He straightened his crumpled fedora and clutched the brim against his chest.

  I focused on his weary eyes. He really was Jack. How could he have come to Earth Red?

  Nikolai, carrying his violin, stepped in front of the flowers and guided the bow across each string as he tuned his instrument. Kelly rose from her seat and brought my violin to the front. I took it and the bow and, trying not to move my lips, whispered, “Fill the empty spot,” then nodded toward the mirrored partition.

  She glanced that way, bobbed her head, and hustled back to Clara. As she walked, she did a double take at the bearded man. Apparently she recognized him, too.

  Trying to ignore the distractions, I turned to Nikolai and bowed. “If you don’t mind, sir, I reconsidered your offer. I will play my part if you will play my mother’s.”

  The old man smiled. “Nathan Shepherd, I can think of no greater honor.” He took my bow hand and blew on my knuckles. “Music is the breath of God,” he said softly. “Let us tell of his love to these mourners and give them a reason to turn their mourning into joy.”

  While everyone else settled in their seats, I rolled my jacket sleeves up two turns and began tuning the violin, keeping an eye on Kelly as she sneaked around to the back of the mirrored partition. Kneeling and slowly reaching from behind, she set the square in the corner. It seemed to jump from her hands and lock in place as if pulled by a magnet.

  A sudden gust rippled the top of the tent’s canopy, a cold gust, much colder than normal for October. I shivered, thankful for the director’s jacket. But what could it mean? Had Earth Yellow already moved into late autumn or early winter, and were its breezes invading the city?

  As most of the onlookers tilted their heads upward, I focused on the mirror. Starting from the newly placed square, a wave of radiance crawled along the surface, brightening the reflection to razor-sharp clarity. When it reached the opposite corner, the strange light pulsed once and vanished.

  Kelly stayed at the edge of the mirror, veiled by flowers and shivering as she drew her hands into her sweatshirt sleeves. When she looked at me, she pointed at the camera dangling from the strap around her neck. “It’s the only light we have,” she whispered.

  Increasing the volume as I continued to tune the violin, I whispered back, “It’ll have to do. I’m guessing Simon Blue put the mirror here, maybe as a way to rescue my Earth Blue parents, so we have to be ready to use it.”

  She nodded, then ducked low. I looked out at the tombstone-covered lawn. Snowflakes swirled through the breeze, already speckling the grass with patches of white. The mourners reached for cloaks and sweaters, apparently prepared for unpredictable shifts in weather.

  Nikolai set a hand on my shoulder and turned toward the audience. “We wish to honor our departed loved ones — I, my cherished daughter, and Nathan, his beloved parents — with the performance of a Vivaldi duet he and his mother played together many times. As we make these violins sing, do not be alarmed if you feel the spirit of Francesca Shepherd as she bids farewell to us all.”

  Raising Mom’s treasured instrument to my chin, I shook off the chill and stepped to the elderly teacher’s side. “I await your lead, Maestro.”

  Nikolai set bow on strings and, with a long vibrant stroke, played the beginning note of the duet.

  I closed my eyes and answered with the familiar notes of my lightning-fast response. Then, opening my eyes a slit to watch the mirror, I played on, blending my music with the master’s smooth, effortless tones. Soon, I would play solo. The last time I performed that part, Mom disappeared and I was left standing alone on stage, playing a solo that never ended. This time, I would watch all the players — Nikolai, Dr. Gordon, and anyone else who might spring a surprise.

  As Nikolai backed away, I shifted to the center, angling my body enough to see the mirror. Every musical phrase massaged my mind, bringing back memories of Mom. The recollections soothed and stung at the same time, blessings that stabbed with the pain of love torn away before its season had ended.

  Then, images of Dad mixed into the memories. As Mom wept and trembled, Dad laid a hand on her cheek, a tender caress that always seemed to calm her, no matter what troubles stirred her turmoil. He held her close, kissing and nuzzling as sweet words passed between them like the same silvery notes I played in their honor.

  In mere seconds, Nikolai would play again, taking Mom’s part at the point she had abandoned not long ago. As my solo built to a crescendo, her final words seemed to brush by my ears. I will join you again when the composer commands me.

  A newcomer walked under the canopy and stood at the back of the seating area, a tall white-haired man. Was he Mictar? Patar? Dr. Gordon bent over and skulked along his row of seats, then headed toward the rear. He stood close to the gaunt man, and the two spoke quietly.

  I glanced at Kelly, still hiding behind the flowers. She saw them, too. Could she tell them apart? Were they Gordon Red and Patar, or Gordon Blue and Mictar?

  The mirror flashed. The reflection displayed bright, colorful shapes that quickly bled together to form a blurred figure, veiled by the floral decorations that separated the two coffins. Kelly crawled out and shoved the flowers out of the way, staying on her knees as she slid some to the side and knocked others over until the entire mirror came into view.

  The image clarified. Mom stood with a violin, her bow at the ready position. On one side, a sheer curtain flapped in a gentle breeze, and on her other, a poster bed with a bare mattress sat on a carpeted floor.

  Straining to keep my breathing in check, I swept through the final notes of my solo. As murmurs spread across the onlookers, Mom joined the duet from the other side of the mirror, answering the composer’s call. The notes rang through like carillon bells, sharp and echoing, as lovely as any angel could hope to create. Nikolai, his eyes wide, lowered his violin and backed away another step.

  As if guided by Mom’s entrancing gaze, I walked slowly toward the mir
ror, my legs heavy. I focused on her eyes. Yes, they were looking right at me. And her lips moved, uttering a quiet whisper drowned by her thrumming melody.

  Crouched at my feet, Kelly relayed Mom’s words. “Take a picture of the mirror.” Kelly leaped to her feet and aimed the camera at the mirror, backing away as she framed in the coffins at each side. When she reached the second row of seats, the camera flashed. Light spread out over me and my surroundings — the mirror, the coffins, and even Nikolai. A sizzling beam shot out and struck the lens, smashing it to pieces.

  Kelly dropped the camera and shook her hands. “It’s like fire!”

  The mirror scene expanded. Our view of Mom’s room widened, spreading out to show Dad standing nearby, shackles attached to his ankles and wrists, though the chains dragged freely. The floor where Mom stood pushed outward and blended into the cemetery grass as the two scenes merged into one. My parents’ swelling room looked like a soap bubble with thick, rubbery walls, as clear as crystal.

  Mom extended her hand and cried out, her voice finally penetrating the barrier. “Take my hand, Nathan! Pull us out of here!”

  In the image, Dad held to Mom’s arm. With chains dangling, he raised a hand. “Son! Now is the time! Rescue us!”

  Dr. Gordon ran up the aisle, grabbed Kelly from behind, and pressed the edge of a knife blade against her throat. “Don’t touch them, Nathan! If you bring them back, I’ll slit her wide open!”

  Several mourners jumped to their feet. With the blade already drawing a trickle of blood from Kelly’s skin, most stood petrified. Daryl lunged, but Clara jerked her back. At the same time, Mictar walked to the front and stood behind Gordon.

  As a gust blew snowflakes across my cheek and flapped the canopy’s ceiling, I laid the violin down and watched for the slightest opportunity to lunge. Clara knew the drill. At any second, she would make a loud noise to distract Gordon. That would be my chance to attack.