Dark Benediction

about stamp collections and time machines and autographs, while an invisible audience gaped at pathos.

“If anybody’s got stamps to trade, just let me know,” he said. “And autographs…”

I winced, but Sanders cut in. “Well, Kenny—we’re not supposed to mention your address, but if any of you Guardsmen out there want to help Kenny out with his stamp collection, you can write to me, and I’ll definitely see that he gets the letters.”

“And autographs too,” Kenny added.

When it was over, Kenny had lived… but lived.

And then the mail came in a deluge, forwarded from the network’s studio. Bushels of stamps, dozens of autograph books, Bibles, money, advice, crank letters, and maudlin gushes of sugary sympathy… and a few sensible and friendly letters. Kenny was delighted.

“Gee, Dad, I’ll never get all the stamps sorted out. And look!—an autograph of Calvin Coolidge!…”

But it never turned him aside from his path of confident but mysterious purpose. He spent even more time in his room, in the garage, and—when he could muster the energy—back in the maple woods, doing mysterious things alone.

“Have they found a cure yet, Dad?” he asked me pleasantly when an expected letter came.

“They’re… making progress,” I answered lamely.

He shrugged. “They will… eventually.” Unconcerned.

It occurred to me that some sort of psychic change, unfathomable, might have happened within him—some sudden sense of timelessness, of identity with the race. Something that would let him die calmly as long as be knew there’d be a cure someday. It seemed too much to expect of a child, but I mentioned the notion to Jules when I saw him again.

“Could be,” be admitted. “It might fit in with this secrecy business.”

“How’s that?”

“People who know they’re dying often behave that way. Little secret activities that don’t become apparent until after they’re gone. Set up causes that won’t have effects until afterwards. Immortality cravings. You want to have posthumous influence, to live after you. A suicide note is one perversion of it. The suicide figures the world will posthumously feel guilty, if he tells it off.”

“And Kenny…!”

“I don’t know, Rod. The craving for immortality is basically procreative, I think. You have children, and train them, and see your own mirrored patterns live on in them, and feel satisfied, when your time comes. Or else you sublimate it, and do the same thing for all humanity—through art, or science. I’ve seen a lot of death, Rod, and I believe there’s more than just-plain-selfishness to people’s immortality-wishes; it’s associated with the human reproductive syndrome—which includes the passing on of culture to the young. But Kenny’s just a kid. I don’t know.”

Despite Kenny’s increasing helplessness and weakness, he began spending more time wandering out in the woods. Cleo chided him for it, and tried to limit his excursions. She drove him to town on alternate days for a transfusion and shots, and she tried to keep him in the house most of the time, but he needed sun and air and exercise; and it was impossible to keep him on the lawn. Whatever he was doing, it was a shadowy secretive business. It involved spades and garden tools and packages, with late excursions into the maples toward the creek.

“You’ll know in four or five months,” he told me, in answer to a question. “Don’t ask me now. You’d laugh.”

But it became apparent that he wouldn’t last that long. The rate of transfusions doubled, and on his bad days, he was unable to get out of bed. He fainted down by the creek, and had to he carried back to the house. Cleo forbade him to go outside alone without Jules’ day-to-day approval, and Jules was beginning to be doubtful about the boy’s activities.

When restricted, Kenny became frantic. “I’ve got to go outside, Dad, please! I can’t finish it if I don’t. I’ve got to! How else can I make contact with them?”

“Contact? With whom?”

But he clammed up and refused to discuss anything about the matter. That night I awoke at two a.m. Something had made a sound. I stole out of bed without disturbing Cleo and went to prowl about the house. A glance down the stairway told me that no lights burned on the first floor. I went to Kenny’s room and gingerly opened the door. Blackness.

“Kenny—?”

No sound of breathing in the room. Quietly I struck a match.

The bed was empty.

“Kenny!” I bellowed it down the hall, and then I heard sounds—Cleo stirring to wakefulness and groping for clothes in our bedroom. I trotted downstairs and turned on lights as I charged from room to room.

He was not in the house. I found the back screen unlatched and went out to play a flashlight slowly over the backyard. There… by the hedge… caught in the cone of light… Kenny, crumpled over a garden spade.

Upstairs, Cleo screamed through the back window. I ran out to gather him up in my arms. Skin clammy, breathing shallow, pulse irregular—he muttered peculiarly as I carried him back to the house.

“Glad you found it… knew you’d find it… got me to the right time… when are we…?”

I got him inside and up to his room. When I laid him on the bed, a crudely drawn map, like a treasure map with an “X” and a set of bearings, fell from his pocket. I paused a moment to study it. The “X” was down by the fork in the creek. What had been buried there?

I heard Cleo coming up the stairs with a glass of hot milk, and I returned the map to Kenny’s pocket and went to call the doctor.

When Kenny awoke, he looked around the room very carefully—and seemed disappointed by what he saw. “Expecting to wake up somewhere else?” I asked.

“I guess it was a dream,” he mumbled. “I thought they came early.”

“Who came early?”

But he clammed up again. “You’ll find out in about four months,” was all he’d say.

He wouldn’t last that long. The next day, Doc Jules ordered him to stay inside, preferably sitting or lying down most of the time. We were to carry him outside once a day for a little sun, but he had to sit in a lawn chair and not run around. Transfusions became more frequent, and finally there was talk of moving him to the hospital.

“I won’t go to the hospital.”

“You’ll have to, Kenny. I’m sorry.”

That night, Kenny slipped outside again. He had been lying quietly all day, sleeping most of the time, as if saving up energy for a last spurt.

Shortly after midnight, I awoke to hear him tiptoe down the hall. I let him get downstairs and into the kitchen before I stole out of bed and went to the head of the stairs. “Kenny!” I shouted. “Come back up here! Right now!” There was a brief silence. Then he bolted. The screen door slammed, and bare feet trotted down the back steps. “Kenny!”

I darted to the rear window, overlooking the backyard. “Kenny!”

Brush whipped as he dove through the hedge. Cleo came to the window beside me, and began calling after him.

Swearing softly, I tugged my trousers over my pajamas, slipped into shoes, and hurried downstairs to give chase. But he had taken my flashlight.

Outside, beneath a dim, cloud-threatened moon, I stood at the hedge, staring out across the meadow toward the woods. The night was full of crickets and rustlings in the grass. I saw no sign of him.

“Kenny!”

He answered me faintly from the distance. “Don’t try to follow me, Dad. I’m going where they can cure me.”

I vaulted the fence and trotted across the meadow toward the woods. At the stone fence, I paused to listen—but there were only crickets. Maybe he’d seen me coming in the moonlight, and had headed back toward the creek.