Robert Young - The Dandelion Girl

The girl on the hill made Mark think of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Perhaps it was because of the way she was standing there in the afternoon sun, her dandelion-hued hair dancing in the wind; perhaps it was because of the way her old-fashioned white dress was swirling around her long and slender legs. In any event, he got the definite impression that she had somehow stepped out of the past and into the present; and that was odd, because as things turned out, it wasnt the past she had stepped out of, but the future.

He paused some distance behind her, breathing hard from the climb. She had not seen him yet, and he wondered how he could apprise her of his presence without alarming her. While he was trying to make up his mind, he took out his pipe and filled and lighted it, cupping his hands over the bowl and puffing till the tobacco came to glowing life. When he looked at her again, she had turned around and was regarding him curiously.

He walked toward her slowly, keenly aware of the nearness of the sky, enjoying the feel of the wind against his face. He should go hiking more often, he told himself. He had been tramping through woods when he came to the hill, and now the woods lay behind and far below him, burning gently with the first pale fires of fall, and beyond the woods lay the little lake with its complement of cabin and fishing pier. When his wife had been unexpectedly summoned for jury duty, he had been forced to spend alone the two weeks he had saved out of his summer vacation and he had been leading a lonely existence, fishing off the pier by day and reading the cool evenings away before the big fireplace in the raftered living room; and after two days the routine had caught up to him, and he had taken off into the woods without purpose or direction and finally he had come to the hill and had climbed it and seen the girl.

Her eyes were blue, he saw when he came up to heras blue as the sky that framed her slender silhouette. Her face was oval and young and soft and sweet. It evoked a dj vu so poignant that he had to resist an impulse to reach out and touch her wind-kissed cheek; and even though his hand did not leave his side, he felt his fingertips tingle.

Why, Im forty-four, he thought wonderingly, and shes hardly more than twenty. What in heavens name has come over me? Are you enjoying the view? he asked aloud.

Oh, yes, she said and turned and swept her arm in an enthusiastic semicircle. Isnt it simply marvelous!

He followed her gaze. Yes, he said, it is. Below them the woods began again, then spread out over the lowlands in warm September colors, embracing a small hamlet several miles away, finally bowing out before the first outposts of the suburban frontier. In the far distance, haze softened the serrated silhouette of Cove City, lending it the aspect of a sprawling medieval castle, making it less of a reality than a dream. Are you from the city too? he asked.

In a way I am, she said. She smiled at him. Im from the Cove City of two hundred and forty years from now.

The smile told him that she didnt really expect him to believe her, but it implied that it would be nice if he would pretend. He smiled back. That would be A.D. twenty-two hundred and one, wouldnt it? he said. I imagine the place has grown enormously by then.

Oh, it has, she said. Its part of a megalopolis now and extends all the way to there. She pointed to the fringe of the forest at their feet. Two Thousand and Fortieth Street runs straight through that grove of sugar maples, she went on, and do you see that stand of locusts over there?

Yes, he said, I see them.

Thats where the new plaza is. Its supermarket is so big that it takes half a day to go through it, and you can buy almost anything in it from aspirins to aerocars. And next to the supermarket, where that grove of beeches stands, is a big dress shop just bursting with the latest creations of the leading couturiers. I bought this dress Im wearing there this very morning. Isnt it simply beautiful?

If it was, it was because she made it so. However, he looked at it politely. It had been cut from a material he was unfamiliar with, a material seemingly compounded of cotton candy, sea foam, and snow. There was no limit any more to the syntheses that could be created by the miracle-fiber manufacturersnor, apparently, to the tall tales that could be created by young girls. I suppose you traveled here by time machine, he said.

Yes. My father invented one.

He looked at her closely. He had never seen such a guileless countenance. And do you come here often?

Oh, yes. This is my favorite space-time coordinate. I stand here for hours sometimes and look and look and look. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

But how can there be a yesterday, Mark asked, if you always return to the same point in time?

Oh, I see what you mean, she said. The reason is because the machine is affected by the passage of time the same as anything else, and you have to set it back every twenty-four hours if you want to maintain exactly the same co-ordinate. I never do because I much prefer a different day each time I come back.

Doesnt your father ever come with you?

Overhead, a V of geese was drifting lazily by, and she watched it for some time before she spoke. My father is an invalid now, she said finally. Hed like very much to come if he only could. But I tell him all about what I see, she added hurriedly, and its almost the same as if he really came. Wouldnt you say it was?

There was an eagerness about the way she was looking at him that touched his heart. Im sure it is, he saidthen, It must be wonderful to own a time machine.

She nodded solemnly. Theyre a boon to people who like to stand on pleasant leas. In the twenty-third century there arent very many pleasant leas left.

He smiled. There arent very many of them left in the twentieth. I guess you could say that this one is sort of a collectors item. Ill have to visit it more often.

Do you live near here? she asked.

Im staying in a cabin about three miles back. Im supposed to be on vacation, but its not much of one. My wife was called to jury duty and couldnt come with me, and since I couldnt postpone it, Ive ended up being a sort of reluctant Thoreau. My name is Mark Randolph.

Im Julie, she said. Julie Danvers.

The name suited her. The same way the white dress suited herthe way the blue sky suited her, and the hill and the September wind. Probably she lived in the little hamlet in the woods, but it did not really matter. If she wanted to pretend she was from the future, it was all right with him. All that really mattered was the way he had felt when he had first seen her, and the tenderness that came over him every time he gazed upon her gentle face. What kind of work do you do, Julie? he asked. Or are you still in school?

Im studying to be a secretary, she said. She took a half step and made a pretty pirouette and clasped her hands before her. I shall just love to be a secretary, she went on. It must be simply marvelous working in a big important office and taking down what important people say. Would you like me to be your secretary, Mr. Randolph?

Id like it very much, he said. My wife was my secretary oncebefore the war. Thats how we happened to meet. Now, why had he said that? he wondered.

Was she a good secretary?

The very best. I was sorry to lose her; but then when I lost her in one sense, I gained her in another, so I guess you could hardly call that losing her.

No, I guess you couldnt. Well, I must be getting back now, Mr. Randolph. Dad will be wanting to hear about all the things I saw, and Ive got to fix his supper.

Will you be here tomorrow?

Probably. Ive been coming here every day. Good-bye now, Mr. Randolph.

Good-bye, Julie, he said.