Thirteen Crucifixions, 109

They were obviously very old, ancient, yet not at all frail nor in any way decrepit.

Stefan immediately thought of seniors in the full bloom of health.  He had never seen such robustly healthy old people.  He had in his brief life seen very few old people of any state of health.  They hadn’t told him their names, nor felt he inclined to ask them.  They stood together by the fountain, looking down at Stefan who sat on the basin, their lined faces aglow with warmth, good will and interest.  This is where he was seated when he saw them approach.  They didn’t appear so old that he couldn’t have an idea of how they must have looked when they were young.  They both seemed very tall, though that might have been because they held themselves straight and erect.  Both had white hair—her eyes were brown and quite sparkled with intelligence and merriment.  His were a stark, luminous blue-grey, eyes from which nothing could be hidden.  They were dressed in a quaint old –fashioned manner—tweeds and stockings that suggested the Twenties.

            Stefan said, “My name is—

            “You are our son”, the woman said.

            “What?”

            “You are our son”, the man echoed.

            “And how are the other two?” the old woman said.  “You’ve been taking good care of them?”

            “I’ve been doing what I can.  Cooking them meals anyway.”

            “Yes”, the woman said.

            “They need a good deal of care”, the old man said, “Their lives I’m afraid have been greatly damaged by evil.”

            “And the damage has spread to many others”, the woman said.  “Thank you so much for coming, Stefan.  No one else would have been right for this place, and for those two.”

            “You know my name—how come you know my name?”

            “We have known you for a very long time, haven’t we, Husband?”  the woman said.

            “A very long time”, her consort agreed.

            “But how?”

            “Shall I tell him?” the woman said.

            “You must.”

            The woman sat down next to Stefan.  Her husband setting down his walking stick, perched on his other side.

            “You must first understand” she said.  “That we are much older than we appear.  How old, by the measure of years, we are unable to say, for even we ourselves have forgotten.  You, Stefan, are our descendant, through your mother, Vera.”

            “Yes, that’s her name.”

            “She was born in Vancouver in 1952.  Her father, your grandfather, Bill, was also born in Vancouver, in 1925.  He was a longshoreman.”

            “This is true.”

            “His father moved from the Niagara Peninsula where he was born in 1900.  His mother was born in 1880 in the same place, the daughter of pioneers from Southampton in England.  Her mother was born on a farm there in 1858.  Her father was born in 1830.  His father, our great grandson, was born in 1800 to our grandson who narrowly escaped the guillotine in Paris in 1793.  Our son wasn’t so fortunate, but lingered in Paris when he should have gone with us to England.  You, Stefan, are our son.”

            “If you say so.”  He no longer knew what to believe, nor if he wasn’t in a prolonged dream, nor if he was dead and stranded in some sort of bizarre after-life.  “What is this place?”

            “The watcher has told you”, the old man said.

            “The watcher?”

            “The boy in the amphitheatre”, the woman said.

            “Who is he?”

            “A guardian”, the man replied.  “That’s all you need to know.  Now, our two guests.  We must go in and see them.”

            “I haven’t been able to wake them”, Stefan said.

            “They are waiting for us”, the woman said, as with her husband  she rose up and walked towards the house.  Stefan remained on the edge of the fountain, running his fingers through the water.  He wondered what was in it, or what its property was, that it created amnesia in whoever drank it.  He thought of trying it himself, then wondered if he really wanted to forget everything.  He did rather, since his life had been so miserable.  There wasn’t much that was worth remembering.  Except Melissa, who he had no way of contacting.  Who was probably worried about him.  Then it occurred to him how accustomed he had already become to his captivity.  Drinking the water of forgetfulness seemed as unnecessary as it was counter-productive.  He withdrew his hand from the water, as though it had become suddenly too hot.  Reckoning by the angle of the sun that it was late in the afternoon, he started towards the house with the intention of preparing dinner.