A Question of Time

Chapter 13

Following a second change of planes in Phoenix, an ordeal accompanied by additional infuriating delays, the last leg of the returning traveler's long flight westward deposited him at the small Flagstaff airport after midnight. He sniffed keenly, testing the local weather. From that point on, eschewing snowy roads, he returned to the Canyon in beast-form, at a four-legged cross-country run.

Only upon his arrival in the immediate vicinity of El Tovar, shortly before dawn, did the traveler resume man-form. On the morning of New Year's Eve the rising sun—fortunately for him obscured behind thick clouds—found him on the South Rim, contemplating the view along with a scattering of like-minded early-rising tourists.

As soon as Mr. Strangeways could comfortably make private contact with his breathing colleagues in Canyon Village, he told Joe Keogh and John Southerland something about his sojourn in England, with emphasis on his stop in Darwin's house. There and from other sources he had been able to gain key information about Tyrrell and his doings down through the decades.

Even as he relayed this information, Mr. Strangeways was administering a massage to Joe's injured ankle, accompanying the physical treatment with certain suggestions delivered mostly by non-verbal means.

Joe, stretched out on the sofa in his suite, and feeling curiously relaxed, enjoyed the relief of pain in his sore leg, and made sure that Strangeways was brought up to date on what had happened at the Canyon in his absence, particularly regarding Bill Burdon's disappearance and return.

Joe was somewhat apologetic on the subject. "I know you warned me against going after Tyrrell. I didn't think I'd have to warn Bill; he was supposed to watch the house, not chase people."

Drakulya's strong, pale fingers paused in their healing work. "And did the young man sustain no injury?"

"Not that I can see."

The massage resumed. "Well, it is impossible to ward against all the impulsiveness of the young—where is Maria, by the way?"

"Keeping Mrs. Tyrrell company, as usual. Hey, that's starting to feel a lot better."

Presently Joe was bidden to get to his feet, and test his leg. For a moment be thought his ankle might be as good as new—but only for a moment. He had not been miraculously cured, but he had been definitely helped.

Brainard, on being introduced to Mr. Strangeways, had stared at him, as if there were something about the bearded man he recognized, or felt himself on the verge of recognizing. Then he had retired to the other room of Joe's suite.

He might have saved his trouble, for Drakulya had little interest in him. Instead he now wanted to talk to Sarah Tyrrell.

This muted, clouded winter daylight was not sharp enough to give a toughened, experienced vampire any trouble. Not really, once he had put on a broad-brimmed hat. Thus prepared, he approached the Tyrrell House, where no one answered his tap at the front door. Nor could his keen ears discover the presence of any breathing lungs inside. Quietly setting out to locate Sarah, he expected no great difficulty—a breathing woman of her age could not have gone far—and experienced none.

He came upon her near mid-morning, when brief periods of sunshine were alternating with snow showers, the former tolerable to Strangeways under tree-shade, the latter providing a good tracking snow. Only the most elementary craft was needed to follow the rather wandering trail of the old woman's boots from the point where she had left the traveled rim-trail and set off through the thin growth of hardy trees.

On coming at last in view of his quarry, Strangeways stopped momentarily that he might observe while himself remaining for the moment unobserved.

Sarah Tyrrell was standing, looking 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 pifon 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 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 as this."

Sarah stared at him again. This time she perhaps saw something that, for the moment at least, offered reassurance. Presently she said: "I think that he expected you to come seeking him one day—or someone like you."

"Indeed? Why?"

"I never knew. Perhaps it was that he had broken some law of your kind, and his…"

"From what I have been able to discover about your husband, I should say that he had good cause to fear our law. Our law does not allow killing without just cause, or the keeping of slaves. Or unprovoked theft, a crime I consider particularly reprehensible."

Sarah stared out over the Canyon. "I make no apologies for Edgar," she said at last. "He had chosen his own life, as we all do. And he will have to accept the consequences. But I wish…"

Almost half a minute passed before Drakulya asked softly: "What is it that you wish, Sarah?"

Sarah looked down at the earth again. "That I had some flowers," she said, "to decorate my child's grave."

Her companion bowed lightly. "Let me see what I can do."

He had no need to go far, no trouble in locating several specimens of mistletoe, growing low enough to be easily reachable, on one of the nearby oaks. Mistletoe, the parasite ripening in winter, with one pale berry already on the sprig. No trouble to find, to pull a sample from the tree, to bring it back to the still-grieving mother.

Going down on one knee, with some difficulty, Sarah placed the simple offering on the otherwise completely unmarked grave.

She accepted the help of a strong arm in getting back to her feet.

"Now," said Mr. Strangeways. "Will you tell me how the infant died?"

That was a terrible thing for Sarah to talk about, but eventually she managed.

"Then you are not sure that the death was your husband's fault?"

"Not sure, no. I never could be sure. But the doubt—I couldn't stay. I had to get my surviving child away."

"I see. I understand."

By silent agreement they had left the unmarked grave behind them now, and were walking slowly back in the direction of paved walks and people.

Sarah asked: "Are you—working with Mr. Keogh?"

"I am his colleague, yes."

"Now I can begin to understand how he expected to be able to help me."

A few minutes later, Sarah and the old vampire were talking freely, back in the Tyrrell House. There, once a smoldering fire was stirred to life, Sarah could be physically warm and comfortable. For the time being they had the place to themselves.

Though she felt she could speak more freely now, still her mind was far from easy. "He was a good man once, and I loved him. I came to fear him too—I came to fear him terribly, and sometimes I still do—but for all that I love him still."

"Have you spoken to him, Sarah, since Cathy disappeared?"

"Only very briefly, at the house the other night. Nothing you could call a real communication. About all we did was exchange looks, and curses." The old woman's voice was hesitant, but Drakulya thought that she was telling the truth. He could not be absolutely sure. Even after five hundred years he was sometimes wrong.

Sarah pleaded with Mr. Strangeways to do all he could to help Cathy. "I appeal to you as a man of honor. She is still missing, and I am greatly worried, in spite of what the young man told me."

"If you appeal to me in such a way, then I must do what I can." He smiled, and patted Sarah's arm. "Is there anything else?"

"There is another matter, Mr. Strangeways, since you are gentleman enough to ask. I would like, if I could, to protect my nephew from the consequences of his own folly. He is a great fool in many ways, but he is not a vicious man. And he is the only father that Cathy has ever really known."

Mr. Strangeways frowned.

"At least—if it is possible—can you protect him from serious harm as long as he remains here in the park?"

"I do not promise anything."

"Please."

"Very well, I will do what I can."

"Thank you. You are a gentleman."