Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [88]
They arrived in open country, in a field, on a cool morning in May 1640. Two young men, probably teens, were working in the field, about a mile away, and the first thing Shel did was look for dogs. The kids saw them. One waved. Shel and Dave waved back and started in their direction.
They were on their knees, doing something to the soil, spreading fertilizer, perhaps. One got up as they approached. “Hello,” he said. “Are you lost?”
“Yes,” said Dave. “We’re looking for Caréo.”
“You have to get back on the road.” He pointed in the direction from which they’d come. “Go left. It’s about a twenty-minute walk.”
DAVE stopped an elderly couple traveling in a cart and asked if they knew of a Michael Shelborne, who lived in Caréo.
“Well, he used to live here,” said the woman.
“Has he moved?”
“Oh, no, sir. He’s dead.”
Mòrto.
Shel didn’t have to wait for the translation.
“Are you sure?” asked Dave.
“Oh, yes. It was three or four years ago, wasn’t it, Poppa?”
“Yes,” Poppa replied. “He was a good man. Did you know him?”
Shel showed the photo.
“Oh, no,” Poppa said. “Michael was much older than this man.”
The woman studied it. “It could be him. When he was young.”
A young woman confirmed it. “That’s him,” she said. “He’s buried at Santo Pietro.”
“A churchyard?” asked Shel, in English.
Dave translated.
“Sì.”
“He wasn’t much of a churchgoer,” Shel objected. “It must be somebody else.”
“Can you show us?” Dave asked.
The woman’s name was Carlotta. She was attractive, with dark, luminous eyes and a quiet smile. She said it was only a short distance, and they fell in behind her. Shel walked almost in a daze. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find in Galileo’s Italy, but certainly nothing like this. For one thing, his father was immortal. Whatever else might change, he would be there, always ready to laugh, to demonstrate what living really meant. Carpe diem. Make the most of your time because you will not forever enjoy the daylight. And that very attitude had somehow imbued him with a cloak of invulnerability.
Carts clattered past. People worked in the fields. Farm animals nibbled on grass. Occasionally, someone rode by on a horse.
Carlotta knew everyone by name, greeted every person they passed, answered questions about her mother’s well-being by saying she was all right. Coming along. Bene. When Dave asked, she explained that her mother had recently delivered another child but had had a difficult time for a while.
When she learned that Shel was Michael’s son, she offered condolences. “You look like him,” she added. The remark induced another chill.
They moved at a steady pace, around a curve out of a cluster of trees, and a town came into view. It was a small town, maybe a hundred houses. Carlotta pointed out an attractive villa with a broad deck and bright green shutters, atop a hill. “That is where he lived,” she said.
“Michael Shelborne?”
“Yes.”
They passed a winery and more houses. And finally they approached an old stone church. It was small and looked abandoned. Shel doubted they could have gotten fifty people into it.
“No,” said Carlotta. “Santo Pietro’s still has an active congregation. But they have no money.”
Its lonely steeple thrust up through the trees. “It doesn’t look safe,” said Dave.
Carlotta smiled. “I can’t imagine anyplace safer.”
An angel with spread wings dominated the churchyard, standing guard over three graves. “Priests,” their guide said. “Father Patrizio, Father Agostino, and Father Cristiano. They were good men. Father Agostino baptized me.”
“Carlotta,” said Dave, translating for Shel, “do you know what Shelborne’s connection was with this church?”
“Only that he was a member.”
“Of Santo Pietro’s?” said Shel. “That’s not possible.”
“I think he must have been. He left his estate to the parish.”
“You mean, to the church?”
“Not directly. As I understand it, it was left to the parròchia. Had he left it to the church, it would have simply gone to Rome. This way, Father Valentini was