by Terry Carr
“Do you want my jacket?”
“No. I’m cold inside.” He looked around at the sky, at the grass, at the rows of markers. “I’ve been responsible, for all of this, and more.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“Young fella, are you by any chance familiar, in your reading, with an old novel by James Hilton called Lost Horizon? Perhaps you saw the movie. It was a wonderful movie, actually much better than the book. Mr. Capra’s greatest achievement. A human testament. Ronald Colman was superb. Do you know the story?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the High Lama, played by Sam Jaffe? His name was Father Perrault?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember how he passed on the caretakership of that magical hidden world, Shangri-La, to Ronald Colman?”
“Yes, I remember that.” Billy paused. “Then he died. He was very old, and he died.”
Gaspar smiled up at Billy. “Very good, Billy. I knew you were a good boy. So now, if you remember all that, may I tell you a story? It’s not a very long story.”
Billy nodded, smiling at his friend.
“In 1582 Pope Gregory XIII decreed that the civilized world would no longer observe the Julian calendar. October 4th, 1582 was followed, the next day, by October 15th. Eleven days vanished from the world. One hundred and seventy years later, the British Parliament followed suit, and September 2nd, 1752 was followed, the next day, by September 14th. Why did he do that, the Pope?”
Billy was bewildered by the conversation. “Because he was bringing it into synch with the real world. The solstices and equinoxes. When to plant, when to harvest.”
Gaspar waggled a finger at him with pleasure. “Excellent, young fella. And you’re correct when you say Gregory abolished the Julian calendar because its error of one day in every one hundred and twenty-eight years had moved the vernal equinox to March 11th. That’s what the history books say. It’s what every history book says. But what if?”
“What if what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What if: Pope Gregory had the knowledge revealed to him that he must readjust time in the minds of men? What if: the excess time in 1582 was eleven days and one hour? What if: he accounted for those eleven days, vanished those eleven days, but that one hour slipped free, was left loose to bounce through eternity? A very special hour… an hour that must never be used… an hour that must never toll. What if?”
Billy spread his hands. “What if, what if, what if! It’s all just philosophy. It doesn’t mean anything. Hours aren’t real, time isn’t something that you can bottle up. So what if there is an hour out there somewhere that…”
And he stopped.
He grew tense, and leaned down to the old man. “The watch. Your watch. It doesn’t work. It’s stopped.”
Gaspar nodded. “At eleven o’clock. My watch works; it keeps very special time, for one very special hour.”
Billy touched Gaspar’s shoulder. Carefully he asked, “Who are you, Dad?”
The old man did not smile as he said, “Gaspar. Keeper. Paladin. Guardian.”
“Father Perrault was hundreds of years old.”
Gaspar shook his head with a wistful expression on his old face. “I’m eighty-six years old, Billy. You asked me if I thought I was God. Not God, not Father Perrault, not an immortal, just an old man who will die too soon. Are you Ronald Colman?”
Billy nervously touched his lower lip with a finger. He looked at Gaspar as long as he could, then turned away. He walked off a few paces, stared at the barren trees. It seemed suddenly much chillier here in this place of entombed remembrances. From a distance he said, “But it’s only… what? A chronological convenience. Like daylight saving time; Spring forward, Fall back. We don’t actually lose an hour; we get it back.”
Gaspar stared at Minna’s grave. “At the end of April I lost an hour. If I die now, I’ll die an hour short in my life. I’ll have been cheated out of one hour I want, Billy.” He swayed toward all he had left of Minna. “One last hour I could have with my old girl. That’s what I’m afraid of, Billy. I have that hour in my possession. I’m afraid I’ll use it, god help me, I want so much to use it.”
Billy came to him. Tense, and chilled, he said, “Why must that hour never toll?”
Gaspar drew a deep breath and tore his eyes away from the grave. His gaze locked with Billy’s. And he told him.
The years, all the days and hours, exist. As solid and as real as mountains and oceans and men and women and the baobab tree. Look, he said, at the lines in my face and deny that time is real. Consider these dead weeds that were once alive and try to believe it’s all just vapor or the mutual agreement of Popes and Caesars and young men like you.
“The lost hour must never come, Billy, for in that hour it all ends. The light, the wind, the stars, this magnificent open place we call the universe. It all ends, and in its place—waiting, always waiting—is eternal darkness. No new beginnings, no world without end, just the infinite emptiness.” And he opened his hand, which had been lying in his lap, and there, in his palm, rested the watch, making no sound at all, and stopped dead at eleven o’clock. “Should it strike twelve, Billy, eternal night falls; from which there is no recall.”
There he sat, this very old man, just a perfectly normal old man. The most recent in the endless chain of keepers of the lost hour, descended in possession from Caesar and Pope Gregory XIII, down through the centuries of men and women who had served as caretakers of the excellent timepiece. And now he was dying, and now he wanted to cling to life as every man and woman clings to life no matter how awful or painful or empty, even if it is for one more hour. The suicide, falling from the bridge, at the final instant, tries to fly, tries to climb back up the sky. This weary old man, who only wanted to stay one brief hour more with Minna. Who was afraid that his love would cost the universe.
He looked at Billy, and he extended his hand with the watch waiting for its next paladin. So softly Billy could barely hear him, knowing that he was denying himself what he most wanted at this last place in his life, he whispered, “If I die without passing it on… it will begin to tick.”
“Not me,” Billy said. “Why did you pick me? I’m no one special. I’m not someone like you. I run an all-night service mart. There’s nothing special about me the way there is about you! I’m not Ronald Colman! I don’t want to be responsible, I’ve never been responsible!”
Gaspar smiled gently. “You’ve been responsible for me.”
Billy’s rage vanished. He looked wounded.
“Look at us, Billy. Look at what color you are; and look at what color I am. You took me in as a friend. I think of you as worthy, Billy. Worthy.” They remained there that way, in silence, as the wind rose. And finally, in a timeless time, Billy nodded.
Then the young man said, “You won’t be losing Minna, Dad. Now you’ll go to the place where she’s been waiting for you, just as she was when you first met her. There’s a place where we find everything we’ve ever lost through the years.”
“That’s good, Billy, that you tell me that. I’d like to believe it, too. But I’m a pragmatist. I believe what exists… like rain and Minna’s grave and the hours that pass that we can’t see, but they are. I’m afraid, Billy. I’m afraid this will be the last time I can speak to her. So I ask a favor. As payment for my life spent protecting the watch.
“I ask for one minute of the hour, Billy. One minute to call her back, so we can stand face-to-face and I can touch her and say goodbye. You’ll be the new protector of this watch, Billy, so I ask you please, just let me steal one minute.”
Billy smiled and nodded. “We can spare the time.”
Gaspar reached out with his free hand and took Billy’s. It was an affectionate touch. “That was the last test, young fella. Oh, you know I’ve been testing you, don’t you? This important item couldn’t go to just anyone. And you passed the test, my friend, my last friend. When I said I could bring her back from wher
e she’s gone, here in this place we’ve both come to so often to talk to someone lost to us, I knew you would understand that anyone could be brought back in that stolen minute. And you let me take it instead of using it for yourself.
“I’m content, Billy. Minna and I don’t need that minute. But if you’re to carry on for me, I think you do need it. So I give you a going-away present…”
And he started the watch, whose ticking was as loud and as clear as a baby’s first sound; and the sweep-second hand began to move away from eleven o’clock.
Then the wind rose, and the sky seemed to cloud over, and it grew colder, with a remarkable silver-blue mist that rolled across the cemetery; and though he did not see it emerge from that grave at a distance far to the right, Billy Kinetta saw a shape move toward him. A soldier in the uniform of a day past, and his rank was Lance Corporal. He came toward Billy Kinetta, and Billy went to meet him as Gaspar watched.
They stood together and Billy spoke to him. And the man whose name Billy had never known when he was alive, answered. And then he faded, as the seconds ticked away. Faded, and faded, and was gone. And the silver-blue mist rolled through them, and past them, and was gone; and the soldier was gone.
Billy stood alone.
When he turned back to look across the grounds to his friend, he saw that Gaspar had fallen from the shooting-stick. He lay on the ground. Billy rushed to him, and fell to his knees and lifted him onto his lap. Gaspar was still.
“Oh, god, Dad, you should have heard what he said. Oh, geez, he let me go. He let me go so I didn’t even have to say I was sorry. He told me he didn’t even see me in that foxhole. He never knew he’d saved my life. I said thank you and he said no, thank you! that he hadn’t died for nothing. Oh, please, Dad, please don’t be dead yet. I want to tell you…”
And the old man, the very old man, opened his eyes. *
“May I remember you to my old girl, Billy?” And his eyes closed and his caretakership was at an end, as his hand opened on the most excellent timepiece, now stopped again, at one minute past eleven, floated from his palm and waited till Billy Kinetta extended his hand, and then it floated down and lay there silently. Safe. Protected.
There in the place where all lost things returned, the young man sat on the cold ground, rocking the body of his friend. And he was in no hurry to leave. There was time.
* The author gratefully acknowledges the importance of a discussion with Ms. Ellie Grossman in the creation of this work of fiction.
Sometimes the ordinary world becomes very strange. It doesn’t even require a change in the laws of nature or a visitation by creatures from the stars. Consider, for instance, waking up to find a giraffe in your bedroom who begins to eat the blankets from your bed…
Juleen Brantingham’s first science fiction story appeared in Universe 9, and she’s gone on to appear in many other sf and fantasy publications with stories as original and delightful as this one. Currently she is working on her first novel.
JULEEN BRANTINGHAM - GIRAFFE TUESDAY
When Violynne woke that morning there was one standing over her bed. It seemed ordinary enough as giraffes go: cream-colored with black spots; that ridiculous neck, of course; tall at the shoulders and sloping down to the rear; whisk-like tail adding a final note of whimsy. Its stubby horns grazed the ceiling of her bedroom and its soft brown eyes regarded her with a kindly air. It bowed to her with enormous dignity and more than a little awkwardness.
“Good day,” it said. Violynne was bemused because she had heretofore believed giraffes to be voiceless. “Do you mind?” it continued when she did not respond to its greeting. “We seem to be out of giraffe biscuits and my stomach is beginning to think my throat’s been cut.” Chortling with what she thought excessive appreciation of its own humor, it proceeded to eat the coverlet from her bed.
She should have stopped it, she supposed. The coverlet had been a gift from her mother. But she had never before—to her knowledge—had a giraffe in her bedroom and she was disinclined to deny it anything. Added to that was her astonishment at the spectacle of the coverlet progressing down the inside of that long neck in lumps and slithers. It was only her ensuing queasiness that at last enabled her to avert her gaze.
Violynne accomplished her morning ablutions, clothed herself in her ordinary buttoned-down fashion, and edged around the giraffe, which was then licking up shreds of chenille with appreciative slurps and slobberings.
Making her way to her apartment kitchenette, she opened the cupboard where she kept breakfast cereals and found a single half-empty box labeled Giraffe Whumpies. The printing on the box did not enlighten her as to whether Whumpies were merely named for the animal, a part of its diet, or (St. Francis forbid!) processed giraffe meat. She poured some into a bowl and discovered that the flakes looked no different from the crispy crunchies she usually consumed for her morning meal. Taking a carton of milk from the refrigerator (“Milk from Genial Giraffes”), she sat down to eat and to consider the situation.
If you have never had a day like Violynne’s Giraffe Tuesday you may wonder that she took it all so calmly. But she had always been somewhat unobservant and it was her personal though unexpressed opinion that such is the richness of life, hers was not an unusual case.
Previously she had had the experience of hearing a cheery little tune, seemingly for the first time, and when she whistled it for her lover, John, had been informed that it was the national anthem of Upper Magnolia and thus a part of the standard repertoire of every musical organization from the Calcutta Philharmonic to the Peachtree Street Kazoo Band.
On another occasion she had been enthusing to her acquaintances about an unusually shaped skyscraper she had noticed when taking a new route to her place of employment. She felt very odd indeed when it was revealed to her that not only was the said building one hundred and seventy-seven years old but also her parents had been married there in the chapel on the eighteenth floor, her kindergarten class had been located in its second sub-basement, and her dentist had his offices in an identical structure just across the street.
Violynne tried not to brood about it excessively but her failing had cost her, at various times, a scholarship, a husband, and a realtor’s license, not to mention the respect of her family and friends.
She had been seven years old before she discovered that there are two sexes among humankind. One day she was living in what she believed to be a perfectly normal world and the next there were boys and men all over it. She had no doubt they had been there before she observed them but to her wondering eyes it was a sudden great infestation, as if beings from another planet had landed and overnight usurped the places of half the people she knew. Jokes whispered to her in the schoolyard acquired new meaning; the fads for miniskirts and codpieces were no longer an expression, entirely, of personal quirkiness; and her one parent’s affinity for beer, hearty laughter, and sardines in garlic oil was more easily understood.
Considering the problems she had subsequently had with the masculine sex, she thought giraffes might be an easier blessing to which she must accustom herself.
As she sat there, thoughtfully chewing her Giraffe Whumpies, she cast back in her mind for memories of the long-necked beasts. She’d had an ordinary city-grown childhood with no pets other than an occasional dime-store goldfish. She had gone to university and fulfilled her military service with never a thought of giraffes crossing her mind in any significant manner. She had a commonplace job at a button factory.
The one oddity in her life was her Dali-mustachioed lover, John, who was employed by the government in some ultra-secret capacity. He spent his leisure hours collecting thesauri and annoying his building superintendent by blowing soap bubbles in the elevators. No giraffes there. Or so she thought.
But could her memory be trusted? After all, on that significant day in her eighth year, previously mentioned, when she saw a penis for the first time, she had inquired in horror-stricken tones as to what ghastly accident had befallen her poor
friend. Into her mind had leaped visions of vacuum cleaner hoses running amuck or deforming chemicals polluting the bath water.
The gales of laughter her inquiry had evoked made her loath to risk such an event a second time. She determined to go about her day as if giraffes were no more out of the ordinary than asbestos pot holders.
After washing her breakfast dishes she took her coat from the closet and prepared to depart for the button factory. However, this was not to be. Somehow, while she had been occupied in the kitchenette, the giraffe had sneaked past her, on tip-toe, most likely, or tip-hoof. She found it waiting by the front door with a leash and a spangled red collar in its mouth.
Violynne frowned with displeasure, never before having considered the disadvantages of owning a pet with legs rather than fins. “Just once around the block,” she told it with no hint of fondness in her voice, for she held a responsible position at the button factory and if she were late, at some time in the future there would be people who would have to go around with trousers and shirtwaists gaping open for lack of buttons. Who knew what disasters could result from such a misfortune?
The giraffe simpered in a manner that warned Violynne it was accustomed to having its own way.
She had a brief moment of concern when she depressed the elevator button but she need not have worried. The elevator car was much more capacious than she remembered, easily tall enough to accommodate the giraffe.
It snuggled up to her as the car descended, licked her on her forehead, and twisting its neck around and about so it could gaze deeply into her eyes, demonstrated such a warm affection for her that she felt her resentment melt entirely away. Feeling somewhat awkward with embarrassment, she patted its nose once or twice.
”Tell me, giraffe, have you a name?”
“Why, of course,” said the animal. “You yourself gave me the name Fido when I was but a wee puppy.”