A Bridge of Years

Epilogue


Billy remembered a sense of upward motion, of expansion, as if he were being drawn into a vacuum. The motion surrounded him, became a place, incomprehensibly large, a blue vastness like the sky. And then it was the sky.

A blue sky generous over a dry landscape, powder-white hills in the far distance and in the foreground a farm. Water arced up from a thousand sprinkler-heads, made rainbows over miles of kale and new green wheat and luxurious arbors of grapes.

Ohio!

Billy was astonished.

He stood on a dusty road in civilian clothes. His body wasn't broken. No more pain, no more fear.


A road in Ohio inside a monster inside a tunnel inside time.

He couldn't make sense of this hierarchy of impossibilities. He had been carried here by wish or accident, perhaps by some being altogether timeless, human or not human or human in one of its aspects or all humanity collated together at the end of duration—he didn't know; it didn't matter. He wondered what he would do without his armor, but the thought was less terrifying than it should have been. Maybe he didn't need the armor. He reached under his rough-woven cotton shirt and touched the place where the lancet had entered his skin; but the hole was seamlessly healed.

Billy walked toward the farm until the common buildings loomed ahead of him and he distinguished two figures at the main gate. Now he hurried forward, recognizing the bearded man: Nathan, his father; and the woman beside him was Maria, his mother, who had died of cancer a month after Billy was born; he recognized her from her photographs.

He stood before Nathan, who was as tall as Billy remembered him. Billy said, "What is this place?" And Nathan answered, "This is where we begin again." Then he opened his arms and Billy ran forward.

Nathan and Maria took him home. Their touch pulled memory out of him like a throbbing tooth until there was only the fact of the sky, the water, the heat.

"Saw an Infantry patrol this morning," Nathan remarked, "but it passed well to the south."

"That's good," Billy's mother said.

Billy took her hand and tugged her toward home.

"I'm tired," he said. The sun was hot and made him tired and he felt like he'd walked a very long way.



about the author

Robert Charles Wilson is a native of California who now resides in Nanaimo, British Columbia, with his wife and son. His short fiction has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine. His novels include A Hidden Place, Memory Wire, Gypsies, and The Divide. He is currendy at work on his next novel, tentatively titled The Harvest.