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Another worth posting, perhaps. This is a stand-alone vignette.
********************
“How old was she?”
“No one knows, really. Best guess now is that she was born sometime in the first half of the twentieth century, but you know what records are like from that period.”
“But…but…that would make her…”
“Over four hundred years old, I know. We knew the home she lived in was a twentieth century original, retrofitted to meet modern standards more than once. That was documented when it was declared a historic monument. We just assumed it had been passed down in the family through the centuries, though. It appears now that the reason is was never transferred is because she never died. We had building and modification permit records, first in the names of Siobhan and Todd Reilly and then later in her name solely. We have death records for Todd some sixty years after the house was built, and birth and marriage records for four children that she had kept in a cedar chest in the house. A…family member…sent us vid-copies, and let us see, but not handle, the originals. They’re authentic, all twentieth century. The oldest child was born in 1962, the youngest a decade later.”
“A family member? How many generations down? Did anyone inherit her longevity?” A head-shake. “I don’t even know what questions to ask!”
“Trust me, I understand.” The archaeology professor gave a wry smile. “She let me visit her in her home any time I wanted, told me stories so vivid that she brought those periods to life for me, showed me how artifacts I brought her were used so that I couldn’t imagine any other interpretation for them after she was done.” He shook his head. “I wish I’d realized how she came by her knowledge while I still could have asked her questions.”
“But the family member? Where is…he? She?”
“She. Her name is Rose. She lived with Siobhan. She’s still in the home; she inherited it, airtight. Not taking callers, though. I doubt she will, either.”
“Rose is a family member? How was she related? Must be a…how-many-times-great-grandchild, or niece, or some such?”
“No blood kin at all. She’s a daughter-in-law, widow of the eldest son. She and Siobhan loved each other as if they were blood-kin, though.”
“Why…but…. she must be near as old, then!”
“About twenty five years younger, yes. We found birth records, once we knew to look, and no, before you ask, there weren’t any death records for her either. I’ve spoken to her on some of my visits. She looks to be about forty-five or fifty. Very personable, and absolutely brilliant. She was the one who helped me with ancient languages at need; spoke at least ten of them fluently. Now I’m thinking she must have learned them when they were still living and vibrant.” A wistful smile crossed his face. “Just once, I heard her sing. I was downstairs with Siobhan, and she was upstairs. She has the voice of an angel. She said she sang Siobhan through the crossing to the Summerland, which I gather is how she refers to death. I can’t think of a gentler way to go, than listening to that voice.”
At that, his graduate student finally looked as though she'd found at least one familiar fact to serve as some sort of anchor. “I know Rose. I thought she was a live-in companion, though, the kind a lot of elderly people have. I wonder what she’ll do now?” she mused. “I mean…no one really knew their secrets, because no one looks for the absence of a death record. But with Siobhan’s death, they’ll look now, and Rose’ll have every crackpot and their cousin after her.”
The professor nodded soberly. “I know. I suspect she’s prepared for just this eventuality. Just because they lived for centuries doesn’t mean they expected to be immortal. In fact, I doubt we’ll see her again. We might get a letter or some other such communication. It won’t be electronic; too easy to trace. It will be handwritten in ink on real paper, probably in Old Cursive. Do you read that?”
Eileen, the graduate student, laughed. “Oh, yes. That was one of the first things Mrs. Reilly and Rose taught me. She said I couldn’t properly understand North American or European history without it. She was right, of course. When she said she’d learned in school, though, I assumed she meant grad school. I suppose she must have been a child. Misdirection with the truth."
So did the professor. “That was Siobhan, all right."
Eileen looked up at the closed front door wistfully. "You know my college sent me over here as part of my service requirement, don't you? An elderly woman and her companion, living alone, without all the usual automated delivery and other modern conveniences. They had a student to do their grocery shopping and laundry and indoor cleaning every semester, though once I came they didn't get a new one assigned again until I started my dissertation. They're the reason I changed my major to a double in history and archaeology, you know? I was enchanted by them. I kept asking to go back, even though I'd long since finished the requirement. Goddess, but I'm going to miss them.”
"So will I" he agreed. "All right then, I would imagine Rose will send whatever she's arranged addressed to you. It might be a letter, or maybe she’ll just send you a key to the house. If she does that, it will almost certainly come without a note or any other indication of what it is or where it came from. Just a small, ancient style metal key about the size of the first two joints of your forefinger, meant for a mechanical lock, It will get us in through one of the doors, and inside she’ll have left an account of everything she wants us to know.”
“But where will she be?”
“I don’t know. Rose isn’t nearly as trusting as Siobhan. Among other things, she was a barrister when she was young. But she’ll have money stashed in a number of places, a variety of safe-houses, and probably a collection of pre-arranged identities at each of them. She’s not a mobster, but she’ll stay under the radar like one to avoid being exploited.” He sighed, looking up at the windows. “I’ll miss them" he murmured again. "Both of them. There was something about them you don’t see in most people, a sort of quietness maybe. I wish her well.”
Eileen nodded soberly. Standing on the sidewalk, they both turned to look at the ordinary, non-descript mid-twentieth century two story house standing incongruously in the middle of a block of densely packed apartment blocks. There wasn’t much room for single-family homes anywhere anymore, but this one still stood, remnant of another time, surrounded by lilac hedges, with an herb garden and a deck in the back yard. As they stood, a clear lovely voice floated through an open upstairs window, singing in Old North American.
“Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you again….”
********************
“How old was she?”
“No one knows, really. Best guess now is that she was born sometime in the first half of the twentieth century, but you know what records are like from that period.”
“But…but…that would make her…”
“Over four hundred years old, I know. We knew the home she lived in was a twentieth century original, retrofitted to meet modern standards more than once. That was documented when it was declared a historic monument. We just assumed it had been passed down in the family through the centuries, though. It appears now that the reason is was never transferred is because she never died. We had building and modification permit records, first in the names of Siobhan and Todd Reilly and then later in her name solely. We have death records for Todd some sixty years after the house was built, and birth and marriage records for four children that she had kept in a cedar chest in the house. A…family member…sent us vid-copies, and let us see, but not handle, the originals. They’re authentic, all twentieth century. The oldest child was born in 1962, the youngest a decade later.”
“A family member? How many generations down? Did anyone inherit her longevity?” A head-shake. “I don’t even know what questions to ask!”
“Trust me, I understand.” The archaeology professor gave a wry smile. “She let me visit her in her home any time I wanted, told me stories so vivid that she brought those periods to life for me, showed me how artifacts I brought her were used so that I couldn’t imagine any other interpretation for them after she was done.” He shook his head. “I wish I’d realized how she came by her knowledge while I still could have asked her questions.”
“But the family member? Where is…he? She?”
“She. Her name is Rose. She lived with Siobhan. She’s still in the home; she inherited it, airtight. Not taking callers, though. I doubt she will, either.”
“Rose is a family member? How was she related? Must be a…how-many-times-great-grandchild, or niece, or some such?”
“No blood kin at all. She’s a daughter-in-law, widow of the eldest son. She and Siobhan loved each other as if they were blood-kin, though.”
“Why…but…. she must be near as old, then!”
“About twenty five years younger, yes. We found birth records, once we knew to look, and no, before you ask, there weren’t any death records for her either. I’ve spoken to her on some of my visits. She looks to be about forty-five or fifty. Very personable, and absolutely brilliant. She was the one who helped me with ancient languages at need; spoke at least ten of them fluently. Now I’m thinking she must have learned them when they were still living and vibrant.” A wistful smile crossed his face. “Just once, I heard her sing. I was downstairs with Siobhan, and she was upstairs. She has the voice of an angel. She said she sang Siobhan through the crossing to the Summerland, which I gather is how she refers to death. I can’t think of a gentler way to go, than listening to that voice.”
At that, his graduate student finally looked as though she'd found at least one familiar fact to serve as some sort of anchor. “I know Rose. I thought she was a live-in companion, though, the kind a lot of elderly people have. I wonder what she’ll do now?” she mused. “I mean…no one really knew their secrets, because no one looks for the absence of a death record. But with Siobhan’s death, they’ll look now, and Rose’ll have every crackpot and their cousin after her.”
The professor nodded soberly. “I know. I suspect she’s prepared for just this eventuality. Just because they lived for centuries doesn’t mean they expected to be immortal. In fact, I doubt we’ll see her again. We might get a letter or some other such communication. It won’t be electronic; too easy to trace. It will be handwritten in ink on real paper, probably in Old Cursive. Do you read that?”
Eileen, the graduate student, laughed. “Oh, yes. That was one of the first things Mrs. Reilly and Rose taught me. She said I couldn’t properly understand North American or European history without it. She was right, of course. When she said she’d learned in school, though, I assumed she meant grad school. I suppose she must have been a child. Misdirection with the truth."
So did the professor. “That was Siobhan, all right."
Eileen looked up at the closed front door wistfully. "You know my college sent me over here as part of my service requirement, don't you? An elderly woman and her companion, living alone, without all the usual automated delivery and other modern conveniences. They had a student to do their grocery shopping and laundry and indoor cleaning every semester, though once I came they didn't get a new one assigned again until I started my dissertation. They're the reason I changed my major to a double in history and archaeology, you know? I was enchanted by them. I kept asking to go back, even though I'd long since finished the requirement. Goddess, but I'm going to miss them.”
"So will I" he agreed. "All right then, I would imagine Rose will send whatever she's arranged addressed to you. It might be a letter, or maybe she’ll just send you a key to the house. If she does that, it will almost certainly come without a note or any other indication of what it is or where it came from. Just a small, ancient style metal key about the size of the first two joints of your forefinger, meant for a mechanical lock, It will get us in through one of the doors, and inside she’ll have left an account of everything she wants us to know.”
“But where will she be?”
“I don’t know. Rose isn’t nearly as trusting as Siobhan. Among other things, she was a barrister when she was young. But she’ll have money stashed in a number of places, a variety of safe-houses, and probably a collection of pre-arranged identities at each of them. She’s not a mobster, but she’ll stay under the radar like one to avoid being exploited.” He sighed, looking up at the windows. “I’ll miss them" he murmured again. "Both of them. There was something about them you don’t see in most people, a sort of quietness maybe. I wish her well.”
Eileen nodded soberly. Standing on the sidewalk, they both turned to look at the ordinary, non-descript mid-twentieth century two story house standing incongruously in the middle of a block of densely packed apartment blocks. There wasn’t much room for single-family homes anywhere anymore, but this one still stood, remnant of another time, surrounded by lilac hedges, with an herb garden and a deck in the back yard. As they stood, a clear lovely voice floated through an open upstairs window, singing in Old North American.
“Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you again….”
