It was so good to be young, Margy knew. She
never wanted to be an adult--grow old and die
in five centuries. That must not happen....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
September 1951
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Hello, Margy," he said bashfully when he came upon her standing beside
the low, white stone wall which surrounded the schoolyard, isolating it
from the carefully landscaped forest and lakes beyond.
"Hello, Clyde."
"How are you today, Margy?"
"I'm fine, Clyde. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Margy.... Mind if I sit down here?"
Feeling a little flutter of unnamed fear, she cried, "Go ahead. I don't
own the wall."
Clyde put his hands behind him, found the top of the wall, and drew
himself up until he could sit on the stones. He looked down at her, his
chin level with her brown curls; he looked as if he had half expected
her to turn and walk away, and when she did not, he smiled uncertainly.
The fear gone, now, she tilted her head and looked at him out of the
corner of her eyes, once again the conscious master of the situation.
Clyde looked very boyish, peering down at her. "Don't you want to sit
down up here, too?" he said, waving his hand awkwardly.
"Maybe."
"Here," he said, offering her his hand. "I'll help you up."
She wanted to take the hand, but instead, she said, "Thank you, but I
can help myself." Gracefully she swung her lithe body up beside him.
Clyde glanced across at her, and she stared down at her swinging legs,
telling herself to be very careful, and above all, not to look into his
eyes when the mature confidence shone through.
Clyde cleared his throat nervously and made conversation by saying,
"I ... uh ... feel sorry for Teach, don't you?"
Margy twisted and puckered her mouth, remembering Teach that morning;
she had looked very bad, and the eye wrinkles were very noticeable,
more noticeable than ever before. "Teach is wearing out," Margy said,
trying to keep the horror out of her voice.
"I ... uh ... thought you'd notice; I don't think the rest of the kids
did."
"She must be over four hundred," Margy said, feeling the cold place in
her stomach become even colder.
"She'll be dead in another fifty years."
* * * * *
Margy shuddered as the coldness exploded through her whole body and
tingled down to her finger tips, making her want to cry. "I hate to
think of anyone dying," she said, wishing he would talk about the
weather, or about anything but dying, wishing he were less serious,
more embarrassed, and more like his old self.
"I just wondered if you'd noticed Teach. I _thought_ you would.
You--you know--you ... uh ... seem to understand things, Margy."
That seemed to expose all her nerve endings, and leave them raw and
tingling. Biting her lip in anger, she said, "I do not! I don't
understand things at all." If he didn't quit being serious, she would
get down and walk away.
"Better than most kids, I meant. Better than _I_ do."
She wanted to laugh hysterically, and she could feel her fingers curl
in toward the palms. "You just think I do," she said.
"No. I'm serious, Margy. I mean it, really. You're more grown up than
we are."
Her heart raced with terror, and her face was drained. She looked away
so he would not notice. "Don't say things like that, Clyde. Clyde,
if you say any more about that I'll--I'll just not ever speak to you
again!"
"Aw, Margy. I don't want to get you sore. I'm sorry."
"It's all right," she said, her heart quieting slowly. What did he
want? she wondered. Surely something. She could tell by the intentness
of his face, the awkwardness, the suppression in his gestures, but
what, she dared not guess, even though she was afraid that she already
knew. She wanted to say, "Look, Clyde, let's just go on laughing like
we have been. Let's laugh and laugh. And not talk very much. Not about
things like death. I like you when you're a little boy and laughing.
I'm afraid of you when you're a man and not laughing." But she said,
"It's nice today, don't you think so?"
"Uh-huh."
* * * * *
She looked at him, and his face was red with embarrassment. He avoided
her eyes, and he was his former self, at least for a moment. The
self she wanted to touch and hold onto in the face of a swirling,
mysterious, and frightening world: except, more than anything else,
she could not afford to touch him, and every day he was growing more
and more away from her until one day he would be gone altogether, and
she would not want to touch him any longer. It was infinitely sad to
sit helplessly by while that happened.
"What did you want to see me about?" she said.
"I ... uh ... guess I forget," he said.
But everything was about to break and shatter, and she could sense it.
She sat pitted against herself and her own confusions, knowing what he
wanted to ask her. It had been bound to come, sooner or later. What was
she going to _do_ about it? That, she was afraid to guess. Not today,
she prayed intently, God, don't let him ask me to marry him today!
"Look, Margy," he said. "Can I walk you home, after school?"
But it would be today. Again, she could sense it. And if she said he
could walk home with her, he would touch her, probably try to kiss her.
Somehow, she would have to stop him from doing that. "Part way," she
said hesitantly. Because she was afraid to deny him; she was afraid to
lose him, yet. She didn't want that.
"I ... want to ask you something, then."
"Please ..." she said.
"Yes, Margy?"
"Let's not be serious. You've been getting so _serious_, lately. I
don't like you when you're that way."
"I have not!" he said hotly.
"You have too," she said. She slipped down from the wall and ran wild
and free toward the classroom building.
"Don't forget! After school!" he called.
Don't forget, she thought bitterly, running, don't forget....
* * * * *
School was over, and they left the grounds together. The grass
underfoot was soft and green. The shade trees around the path,
pleasantly protecting. The neat, clean houses, set in the forest at
intervals, individual proud flower beds a dot in the smooth, close
cropped lawns. The sky, bright blue with sunset on the horizon (through
the trees) gold and purple, and the air, clean, perfumery. Adults
moved around their homes, puttering in the gardens, mending the tiny
spots where mending was required; their faces were bright eyed, young,
peaceful, but wise with the wisdom of experience.
"We're a lot alike," Clyde said after a while.
"Are we?"
"Don't you think so?"
"I don't know," she said, looking away from him, thinking that it would
be nice to go on forever walking in the sunset like this.
"Where do you live?"
"Down here," she said vaguely.
"Oh."
They walked on, passed a pond almost covered with lilies that were
opened out, in white and yellow bloom: passed a banyan tree, where
miniature turtle doves had gathered to coo softly for night; over a
small wood bridge spanning a stream of clear hurtling waters.
"... You started school here just last year, didn't you?"
She swallowed down the tenseness in her throat. "Yes ... I came
from ... the East." She knew that she should have said it more glibly,
but the words seemed to clog in her throat.
"That's what I thought," he said. "I don't remember you before last
year."
They came to a widening of the lane where an ancient tree stood alone,
as if the rest of the trees had moved back to give it room, out of
respect to its venerability.