PALADIN OF THE LOST HOUR

by HARLAN ELLISON

“Paladin of the Lost Hour” copyright 1985, 1986 by the KilimanjaroCorporation.

THIS WAS AN OLD MAN. Not an incredibly old man; obsolete, spavined; not as worn as theswaybacked stone steps ascending the Pyramid of the Sun to an ancient temple; not yet arelic. But even so, a very old man, this old man perched on an antique shooting stick, itshandles open to form a seat, its spike thrust at an angle into the soft ground and trimmedgrass of the cemetery. Gray, thin rain misted down at almost the same, angle as that atwhich the spike pierced the ground. The winter-barren trees lay flat and black against analuminum sky, unmoving in the chill wind. An old man sitting at the foot of a grave moundwhose headstone had tilted slightly when the earth had settled; sitting in the rain andspeaking to someone below.

“They tore it down, Minna.

“I tell you, they must have bought off a councilman.

“Came in with bulldozers at six o’clock in the morning, and you know that’s notlegal. There’s a Municipal Code. Supposed to hold off till at least seven on weekdays,eight on the weekend; but there they were at six, even before six, barely lightfor godsakes. Thought they’d sneak in and do it before the neighborhood got wind of it andcall the landmarks committee. Sneaks: they come on holidays, can you imagine!

“But I was out there waiting for them, and I told them, ‘You can’t do it, that’sCode number 91.03002, subsection E,’ and they lied and saidthey had special permission, so I said to the big muckymuck in charge, ‘Let’s see yourwaiver permit,’and he said the Code didn’t apply in this case because it was supposed tobe only for grading, and since they were demolishing and not grading, they could startwhenever they felt like it. So I told him I’d call the police, then, because it came underthe heading of Disturbing the Peace, and he said … well, I know you hate that kind oflanguage, old girl, so I won’t tell you what he said, but you can imagine.

“So I called the police, and gave them my name, and of course they didn’t getthere till almost quarter after seven (which is what makes me think they bought off acouncilman), and by then those ‘dozers had leveled most of it. Doesn’t take long, you knowthat.

“And I don’t suppose it’s as great a loss as, maybe, say, the Great Library ofAlexandria, but it was the last of the authentic Deco design drive-ins, and the carhopsstill served you on roller skates, and it was a landmark, and just about the only placeleft in the city where you could still get a decent grilled cheese sandwich pressed veryflat on the grill by one of those weights they used to use, made with real cheese and notthat rancid plastic they cut into squares and call it ‘cheese food.’

“Gone, old dear, gone and mourned. And I understand they plan to put up anotherone of those mini-malls on the site, just ten blocks away from one that’s already there,and you know what’s going to happen: this new one will drain off the traffic from theolder one, and then that one will fall the way they all do when the next one gets built,you’d think they’d see some history in it; but no, they never learn, And you should haveseen the crowd by seven-thirty. All ages, even some of those kids painted like aborigines,with torn leather clothing. Even they came to protest. Terrible language, but at leastthey were concerned. And nothing could stop it. They just whammed it, and down it went.

“I do so miss you today, Minna. No more good grilled cheese.” Said the veryold man to the ground. And now he was crying softly, and now the wind rose, and the mistrain stippled his overcoat.

Nearby, yet at a distance, Billy Kinetta stared down at another grave. He could see theold man over there off to his left, but he took no further notice. The wind whipped thevent of his trenchcoat. His collar was up but rain trickled down his neck. This was ayounger man, not yet thirty-five. Unlike the old man, Billy Kinetta neither cried norspoke to memories of someone who had once listened. He might have been a geomancer, sosilently did he stand, eyes toward the ground.

One of these men was black; the other was white.

# # #

Beyond the high, spiked-iron fence surrounding the cemetery two boys crouched, staringthrough the bars, through the rain; at the men absorbed by grave matters, by matters ofgraves. These were not really boys. They were legally young men. One was nineteen, theother two months beyond twenty. Both were legally old enough to vote, to drink alcoholicbeverages, to drive a car. Neither would reach the age of Billy Kinetta.

One of them said, “Let’s take the old man.”

The other responded, “You think the guy in the trenchcoat’ll get in the way?”

The first one smiled; and a mean little laugh. “I sure as shit hope so.” Hewore, on his right hand, a leather carnaby glove with the fingers cut off, small roundmetal studs in a pattern along the line of his knuckles.

He made a fist, flexed, did itagain.

They went under the spiked fence at a point where erosion had created a shallow gully.”Sonofabitch!”

one of them said, as he slid through on his stomach. It wasmuddy. The front of his sateen roadie jacket was filthy. “Sonofabitch!” He wasspeaking in general of the fence, the sliding under, the muddy ground, the universe intotal. And the old man, who would now really get the crap kicked out of him formaking this fine sateen roadie jacket filthy.

They sneaked up on him from the left, as far from the young guy in the trenchcoat asthey could. The first one kicked out the shooting stick with a short, sharp, downwardmovement he had learned in his tae kwon do class. It was called the yup-chagi.The old man went over backward.

Then they were on him, the one with the filthy sonofabitch sateen roadie jacketpunching at the old man’s neck and the side of his face as he dragged him around by thecollar of the overcoat. The other one began ransacking the coat pockets, ripping thefabric to get his hand inside.

The old man commenced to scream. “Protect me! You’ve got to protect me …it’snecessary to protect me!”

The one pillaging pockets froze momentarily. What the hell kind of thing is that forthis old fucker to be saying? Who the hell does he think’ll protect him? Is he asking usto protect him? I’ll protect you, scumbag! I’ll kick in your fuckin’ lung! “Shut’imup!” he whispered urgently to his friend. “Stick a fist in his mouth!” Thenhis hand, wedged in an inside jacket pocket, closed over something. He tried to get hishand loose, but the jacket and coat and the old man’s body had wound around his wrist.”C’mon loose, motherfuckah!” he said to the very old man, who was stillscreaming for protection. The other young man was making huffing sounds, as dark as mud,as he slapped at the rain-soaked hair of his victim. “I can’t . .

. he’s all twisted’round … getcher hand outta there so’s I can … ” Screaming, the old man haddoubled under, locking their hands on his person.

And then the pillager’s fist came loose, and he was clutching for an instant a gorgeouspocket watch.

What used to be called a turnip watch.

The dial face was cloisonné, exquisite beyond the telling.

The case was of silver, so bright it seemed blue.

The hands, cast as arrows of time, were gold. They formed a shallow V at preciselyeleven o’clock. This was happening at 3:45 in the afternoon, with rain and wind.

The timepiece made no sound, no sound at all.

Then: there was space all around the watch, and in that space in the palm of the hand,there was heat.

Intense heat for just a moment, just long enough for the hand to open.

The watch glided out of the boy’s palm and levitated.

“Help me! You must protect me!”

Billy Kinetta heard the shrieking, but did not see the pocket watch floating in the airabove the astonished young man. It was silver, and it was end-on toward him, and the rainwas silver and slanting; and he did not see the watch hanging free in the air, even whenthe furious young man disentangled himself and leaped for it. Billy did not see the watchrise just so much, out of reach of the mugger.

Billy Kinetta saw two boys, two young men of ratpack age, beating someone much older;and he went for them. Pow, like that!

Thrashing his legs, the old man twisted around — over, under — as the boy holding himby the collar tried to land a punch to put him away. Who would have thought the old man tohave had so much battle in him?

A flapping shape, screaming something unintelligible, hit the center of the group atfull speed. The carnaby-gloved hand reaching for the watch grasped at empty air onemoment, and the next was buried under its owner as the boy was struck a crackback blockthat threw him face first into the soggy ground.

He tried to rise, but something stompedhim at the base of his spine; something kicked him twice in the kidneys; something rolledover him like a flash flood.

Twisting, twisting, the very old man put his thumb in the right eye of the boyclutching his collar.

The great trenchcoated maelstrom that was Billy Kinetta whirled into the boy as he letloose of the old man on the ground and, howling, slapped a palm against his stinging eye.Billy locked his fingers and delivered a roundhouse wallop that sent the boy reelingbackward to fall over Minna’s tilted headstone.

Billy’s back was to the old man. He did not see the miraculous pocket watch smoothlydescend through rain that did not touch it, to hover in front of the old man. He did notsee the old man reach up, did not see the timepiece snuggle into an arthritic hand, didnot see the old man return the turnip to an inside jacket pocket.

Wind, rain and Billy Kinetta pummeled two young men of a legal age that made themaccountable for their actions. There was no thought of the knife stuck down in one boot,no chance to reach it, no moment when the wild thing let them rise. So they crawled. Theyscrabbled across the muddy ground, the slippery grass, over graves and out of his reach.They ran; falling, rising, falling again; away, without looking back.

Billy Kinetta, breathing heavily, knees trembling, turned to help the old man to hisfeet; and found him standing, brushing dirt from his overcoat, snorting in anger andmumbling to himself.

“Are you all right?”

For a moment the old man’s recitation of annoyance continued, then he snapped his chindown sharply as if marking end to the situation, and looked at his cavalry to the rescue.”That was very good, young fella.

Considerable style you’ve got there.”

Billy Kinetta stared at him wide-eyed. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He reachedover and flicked several blades of wet grass from the shoulder of the old man’s overcoat.

“I’m fine. I’m fine but I’m wet and I’m cranky. Let’s go somewhere and have a nicecup of Earl Grey.”

There had been a look on Billy Kinetta’s face as he stood with lowered eyes, staring atthe grave he had come to visit. The emergency had removed that look. Now it returned.

“No, thanks. If you’re okay, I’ve got to do some things.”

The old man felt himself all over, meticulously, as he replied, “I’m onlysuperficially bruised. Now if I were an old woman, instead of a spunky old man, same agethough, I’d have lost considerable of the calcium in my bones, and those two would havedone me some mischief. Did you know that women lose a considerable part of their calciumwhen they reach my age? I read a report.” Then he paused, and said shyly, “Comeon, why don’t you and I sit and chew the fat over a nice cup of tea?”

Billy shook his head with bemusement, smiling despite himself. “You’re somethingelse, Dad. I don’t even know you.”

“I like that.”

“What: that I don’t know you?”

“No, that you called me ‘Dad’ and not ‘Pop.’ I hate ‘Pop.’ Always makesme think the wise-apple wants to snap off my cap with a bottle opener. Now Dadhas a ring of respect to it. I like that right down to the ground. Yes, I believe weshould find someplace warm and quiet to sit and get to know each other. After all, yousaved my life. And you know what that means in the Orient.”

Billy was smiling continuously now. “In the first place, I doubt very much I savedyour life. Your wallet, maybe. And in the second place, I don’t even know your name; whatwould we have to talk about?”

“Gaspar,” he said, extending his hand. “That’s a first name. Gaspar.Know what it means?”

Billy shook his head.

“See, already we have something to talk about.”

So Billy, still smiling, began walking Gaspar out of the cemetery. “Where do youlive? I’ll take you home.”

They were on the street, approaching Billy Kinetta’s 1979 Cutlass. “Where I liveis too far for now. I’m beginning to feel a bit peaky. I’d like to lie down for a minute.We can just go on over to your place, if that doesn’t bother you. For a few minutes. A cupof tea. Is that all right?”

He was standing beside the Cutlass, looking at Billy with an old man’s expectant smile,waiting for him to unlock the door and hold it for him till he’d placed hisstill-calcium-rich but nonetheless old bones in the passenger seat. Billy stared at him,trying to figure out what was at risk if he unlocked that door. Then he snorted a tinylaugh, unlocked the door, held it for Gaspar as he seated himself, slammed it and wentaround to unlock the other side and get in. Gaspar reached across and thumbed up the doorlock knob. And they drove off together in the rain.

Through all of this the timepiece made no sound, no sound at all.

2”># # #

When he came home at two, prepared to open a can of Hormel chili, he found the tableset for dinner, with the scent of an elegant beef stew enriching the apartment. There werenew potatoes and stirfried carrots and zucchini that had been lightly battered to delicatecrispness. And cupcakes. White cake with chocolate frosting. From a bakery.

And in that way, as gently as that, Gaspar insinuated himself into Billy Kinetta’sapartment and his life.

As they sat with tea and cupcakes, Billy said, “You don’t have anyplace to go, doyou?”

The old man smiled and made one of those deprecating movements of the head. “Well,I’m not the sort of fella who can bear to be homeless, but at the moment I’m whatvaudevillians used to call ‘at liberty.’”

“If you want to stay on a time, that would be okay,” Billy said. “It’snot very roomy here, but we seem to get on all right.”

“That’s strongly kind of you, Billy. Yes, I’d like to be your roommate for awhile. Won’t be too long, though. My doctor tells me I’m not long for this world.” Hepaused, looked into the teacup, and said softly, “I have to confess … I’m alittle frightened. To go. Having someone to talk to would be a great comfort.”

And Billy said, without preparation, “I was visiting the grave of a man who was inmy rifle company in Vietnam. I go there sometimes.” But there was such pain in hiswords that Gaspar did not press him for details.

So the hours passed, as they will with or without permission, and when Gaspar askedBilly if they could watch television, to catch an early newscast, and Billy tuned in theold set just in time to pick up dire reports of another aborted disarmament talk, andBilly shook his head and observed that it wasn’t only Gaspar who was frightened ofsomething like death, Gaspar chuckled, patted Billy on the knee and said, withunassailable assurance, “Take my word for it, Billy … it isn’t going to happen.No nuclear holocaust.

Trust me, when I tell you this: it’ll never happen. Never, never,not ever.”

Billy smiled wanly. “And why not? What makes you so sure … got somespecial inside information?”

And Gaspar pulled out the magnificent timepiece, which Billy was seeing for the firsttime, and he said, “It’s not going to happen because it’s only eleven o’clock.”

Billy stared at the watch, which read 11:00 precisely. He consulted his wristwatch.”Hate to tell you this, but your watch has stopped. It’s almost five-thirty.”

Gaspar smiled his own certain smile. “No, it’s eleven.”

And they made up the sofa for the very old man, who placed his pocket change and hisfountain pen and the sumptuous turnip watch on the now-silent television set, and theywent to sleep.

4”># # #

Billy had finished eating, and they were sitting in the dimness of the apartment, onlythe lamp in the corner lit. The old man had gone to the County Art Museum and had boughtinexpensive prints — Max Ernst, Gerome, Richard Dadd, a subtle Feininger — which he hadmounted in Insta-Frames, They sat in silence for a time, relaxing; then murmuringtrivialities in a pleasant undertone.

Finally, Gaspar said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my dying. I like what WoodyAllen said.” Billy slid to a more comfortable position in the lounger. “What was that?” “He said: I don’t mind dying, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Billy snickered.

“I feel something like that, Billy. I’m not afraid to go, but I don’t want toleave Minna entirely. The times I spend with her, talking to her, well, it gives me thefeeling we’re still in touch. When I go, that’s the end of Minna. She’ll be well and trulydead. We never had any children, almost everyone who knew us is gone, no relatives. And wenever did anything important that anyone would put in a record book, so that’s the end ofus. For me, I don’t mind; but I wish there was someone who knew about Minna …she was aremarkable person.” So Billy said, “Tell me. I’ll remember for you.”

6”># # #

Dawn had come. The light filtering in through the blinds was saffron. “Thank you,Dad,” Billy said. He could not name the feeling that had taken him hours earlier. Buthe said this: “I’ve never had to be responsible for anything, or anyone, in my wholelife. I never belonged to anybody … I don’t know why.

It didn’t bother me, because Ididn’t know any other way to be.”

Then his position changed, there in the lounger. He sat up in a way that Gaspar thoughtwas important. As if Billy were about to open the secret box buried at his center. AndBilly spoke so softly the old man had to strain to hear him.

“I didn’t even know him.

“We were defending the airfield at Danang. Did I tell you we were 1st Battalion,9th Marines? Charlie was massing for a big push out of Quang Ngai province, south of us.Looked as if they were going to try to take the provincial capital. My rifle company wasassigned to protect the perimeter. They kept sending in patrols to bite us. Every day we’dlose some poor bastard who scratched his head when he shouldn’t of.

It was June, late inJune, cold and a lot of rain. The foxholes were hip-deep in water.

“Flares first. Our howitzers started firing. Then the sky was full of tracers, andI started to turn toward the bushes when I heard something coming, and these twomain-force regulars in dark blue uniforms came toward me. I could see them so clearly.Long black hair. All crouched over. And they started firing. And that goddam carbineseized up, wouldn’t fire; and I pulled out the banana clip, tried to slap in another, butthey saw me and just turned a couple of AK-47’s on me … God, I remember everythingslowed down … I looked at those things, seven-point-six-two-millimeter assault riflesthey were … I got crazy for a second, tried to figure out in my own mind if they wereRussian-made, or Chinese, or Czech, or North Korean. And it was so bright from the flaresI could see them starting to squeeze off the rounds, and then from out of nowhere thislance corporal jumped out at them and yelled somedamnthing like, ‘Hey, you VC fucks, lookahere!’ except it wasn’t that … I never could recall what he said actually … andthey turned to brace him … and they opened him up like a baggie full of blood …and he was all over me, and the bushes, and oh god there was pieces of him floating on thewater I was standing in … “

Billy was heaving breath with impossible weight. His hands moved in the air before hisface without pattern or goal. He kept looking into far corners of the dawn-lit room as ifspecial facts might present themselves to fill out the reasons behind what he was saying.

“Aw, geezus, he was floating on the water… aw, Christ, he got inmy boots!” Then a wail of pain so loud it blotted out the sound of trafficbeyond the apartment; and he began to moan, but not cry; and the moaning kept on; andGaspar came from the sofa and held him and said such words as it’s all right, butthey might not have been those words, or any words.

And pressed against the old man’s shoulder, Billy Kinetta ran on only half sane:”He wasn’t my friend, I never knew him, I’d never talked to him, but I’d seen him, hewas just this guy, and there wasn’t any reason to do that, he didn’t know whether I was agood guy or a shit or anything, so why did he do that?

He didn’t need to do that. Theywouldn’t of seen him. He was dead before I killed them. He was gone already. I never gotto say thank you or thank you or … anything!

“Now he’s in that grave, so I came here to live, so I can go there, but I try andtry to say thank you, and he’s dead, and he can’t hear me, he can’t hear anything, he’sjust down there, down in the ground, and I can’t say thank you … oh, geezus, geezus,why don’t he hear me, I just want to say thanks … “

Billy Kinetta wanted to assume the responsibility for saying thanks, but that waspossible only on a night that would never come again; and this was the day.

Gaspar took him to the bedroom and put him down to sleep in exactly the same way onewould soothe an old, sick dog.

Then he went to his sofa, and because it was the only thing he could imagine saying, hemurmured, “He’ll be all right, Minna. Really he will.”

8”># # #

It was a nice day, cool and clear. Not at all a day for dying, but neither had beenmany such days in Southeast Asia, and death had not been deterred.

They stood at Minna’s gravesite, and Gaspar opened his shooting stick to form a seat,and he thrust the spike into the ground, and he settled onto it, and sighed, and said toBilly Kinetta, “I’m growing cold as that stone.”

“Do you want my jacket?”

“No. I’m cold inside.” He looked around at the sky, at the grass, at the rowsof 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 novelby James Hilton called Lost Horizon? Perhaps you saw the movie. It was awonderful movie, actually much better than the book.

Mr. Capra’s greatest achievement. Ahuman testament. Ronald Colman was superb. Do you know the story?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the High Lama, played by Sam Jaffe? His name was FatherPerrault?”

“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 longerobserve the Julian calendar.

October 4th, 1582 was followed, the next day, by October15th. Eleven days vanished from the world.

One hundred and seventy days later, the BritishParliament followed suit, and September 2nd, 1752 was followed, the next day, by September14th. Why did he do that, the Pope?”

Billy was bewildered by the conversation. “Because he was bringing it into synchwith 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’recorrect when you say Gregory abolished the Julian calendar because its error of one day inevery 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 whatif?”

“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 readjusttime 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 hourslipped free, was left loose to bounce through eternity? A very special hour …an hourthat 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. Itdoesn’t mean anything. Hours aren’t real, time isn’t something that you can bottle up. Sowhat 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’twork. It’s stopped.”

Gaspar nodded. “At eleven o’clock. My watch works; it keeps very special time, forone 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-sixyears old, Billy. You asked me if I thought I was God. Not God, not Father Perrault, notan 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 hecould, then turned away. He walked off a few paces, stared at the barren trees. It seemedsuddenly much chillier here in this place of entombed remembrances. From a distance hesaid, “But it’s only … what? A chronological convenience. Like daylight savingtime; 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 havewith my old girl. That’s what I’m afraid of, Billy. I have that hour in my possession. I’mafraid 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 nevertoll?”

Gaspar drew a deep breath and tore his eyes away from the grave. His gaze locked withBilly’s. And he told him.

The years, all the days and hours, exist. As solid and as real as mountains and oceansand men and women and the baobab tree. Look, he said, at the lines in my face and denythat time is real. Consider these dead weeds that were once alive and try to believe it’sall 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 inits place — waiting, always waiting — is eternal darkness. No new beginnings, no worldwithout end, just the infinite emptiness.”

And he opened his hand, which had been lying in his lap, and there, in his palm, restedthe watch, making no sound at all, and stopped dead at eleven o’clock. “Should itstrike 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 inthe endless chain of keepers of the lost hour, descended in possession from Caesar andPope Gregory XIII, down through the centuries of men and women who had served ascaretakers of the excellent timepiece. And now he was dying, and now he wanted to cling tolife as every man and woman clings to life no matter how awful or painful or empty, evenif it is for one more hour. The suicide, failing 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 stayone 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 nextpaladin. So softly Billy could barely hear him, knowing that he was denying himself whathe most wanted at this last place in his life, he whispered, “If I die withoutpassing it on … it will begin to tick.”

“Not me,” Billy said. “Why did you pick me? I’m no one special. I’m notsomeone like you. I run an allnight service mart. There’s nothing special about me theway there is about you! I’m not Ronald Colman!

I don’t want to be responsible, I’ve neverbeen 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. Youtook 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 timelesstime, Billy nodded.

Then the young man said, “You won’t be losing Minna, Dad. Now you’ll go to theplace where she’s been waiting for you, just as she was when you first met her. There’s aplace 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 apragmatist. I believe what exists … like rain and Minna’s grave and the hours thatpass that we can’t see, but they are. I’m afraid, Billy. I’m afraid this will bethe last time I can speak to her. So I ask a favor. As payment, in return for my lifespent protecting the watch.

“I ask for one minute of the hour, Billy. One minute to call her back, so we canstand face-to-face and I can touch her and say goodbye. You’ll be the new protector ofthis watch, Billy, so I ask you please, just let me steal one minute.”

Billy could not speak. The look on Gaspar’s face was without horizon, empty as tundra,bottomless. The child left alone in darkness; the pain of eternal waiting. He knew hecould never deny this old man, no matter what he asked, and in the silence he heard avoice say: “No!” And it was his own.

He had spoken without conscious volition. Strong and determined, and without theslightest room for reversal. If a part of his heart had been swayed by compassion, thatpart had been instantly overridden.

No. A final, unshakable no.

For an instant Gaspar looked crestfallen. His eyes clouded with tears; and Billy feltsomething twist and break within himself at the sight. He knew he had hurt the old man.Quickly, but softly, he said urgently, “You know that would be wrong, Dad. We mustn’t… “

Gaspar said nothing. Then he reached out with his free hand and took Billy’s. It was anaffectionate touch.

“That was the last test, young fella. Oh, you know I’ve beentesting you, don’t you? This important item couldn’t go to just anyone.

“And you passed the test, my friend: my last, best friend. When I said I couldbring her back from where she’s gone, here in this place we’ve both come to so often, totalk to someone lost to us, I knew you would understand that anyone could bebrought back in that stolen minute. I knew you wouldn’t use it for yourself, no matter howmuch you wanted it; but I wasn’t sure that as much as you like me, it might not sway you.But you wouldn’t even give it to me, Billy.”

He smiled up at him, his eyes now clear and steady.

“I’m content, Billy. You needn’t have worried. Minna and I don’t need that minute.But if you’re to carry on for me, I think you do need it. You’re in pain, and that’s nogood for someone who carries this watch.

You’ve got to heal, Billy.

“So I give you something you would never take for yourself. I give you agoing-away present …”

And he started the watch, whose ticking was as loud and as clear as a baby’s firstsound; and the sweepsecond 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 aremarkable silver-blue mist that rolled across the cemetery; and though he did not see itemerge from that grave at a distance far to the right, Billy Kinetta saw a shape movetoward him. A soldier in the uniform of a day past, and his rank was Lance Corporal. Hecame 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 neverknown 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, andwas 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 hadfallen from the shooting stick. He lay on the ground. Billy rushed to him, and fell to hisknees 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 letme go so I didn’t even have to say I was sorry. He told me he didn’t even see mein 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 tellyou … “

And, as it sometimes happens, rarely but wonderfully, sometimes they come back for amoment, for an instant before they go, the old man, the very old man, opened his eyes,just before going on his way, and he looked through the dimming light at his friend, andhe said, “May I remember you to my old girl, Billy?”

And his eyes closed again, after only a moment; and his caretakership was at an end; ashis hand opened and the most excellent timepiece, now stopped again at one minute pasteleven, floated from his palm and waited till Billy Kinetta extended his hand; and then itfloated down and lay there silently, making no sound, no sound at all. Safe. Protected.

There in the place where all lost things returned, the young man sat on the coldground, rocking the body of his friend. And he was in no hurry to leave. There was time.

# # #

Like a wind crying endlessly through the universe, Timecarries away the names and the deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. Andall that we were, all that remains, is in the memories of those who caredwe came this way for a brief moment.

A blessing of the 18th Egyptian Dynasty: God be between you and harm in all the empty places you walk.

Brought to you by www.harlanellison.com