A Bridge of Years by Robert Charles Wilson Page B

back yard, with a
heavy-duty flashlight in his hand and a pair of wading boots to
protect his ankles.
    The
machine bugs were there in great numbers—as they had been in his
not-a-dream—fluorescing in the moonlight, a tide of them flowing
from the foundation holes into the deep woods. In pursuit of what?
    Tom
debated following them, but decided not to: not now. Not in the dark.
    They
wanted his help. They had asked for it.
    Disturbing,
that he knew this. It was a form of communication, one he didn't
understand or control, help
us tom winter , they
had said, and they were saying it now. But it wasn't a message he
heard or interpreted, simply a silent understanding that this was
what they wanted. They didn't mean to hurt him. Simply wanted his
help. What help, where? But
the only answer was a sort of beckoning, as deeply understood as
their other message: follow
us into the woods.
    He
backed away in the darkness, alarmed. He recalled with sudden
vividness the experience of reading Christina Rossetti's "The
Goblin Market," years ago, in one of his mother's books, a
leather-bound volume of Victorian poetry. Reading it and shivering in
his summer bedroom, terrified by the spidery silhouette of the
arbutus outside his window and by the possibilities of nighttime
invitations too eagerly accepted. No
thank you, he
thought, I
believe I'll stay out of the forest for now.
    The
machine bugs conveyed no response—except perhaps the dim mental
equivalent of a shrug—and carried on their strange commerce between
the house and the depths of the woods.
    The
next morning, when he turned on the TV set, it emitted a crackle of
static, flared suddenly brighter, and displayed a message:
    help
us tom winter
    Tom
had just stepped out of the shower; he was wearing a bathrobe and
carrying a cup of coffee. He failed to notice when the coffee
splashed over his hand and onto the carpet, though the skin around
the web of his thumb was red for the rest of the day.
    The
letters blinked and steadied.
    "Jesus
Christ!" he said.
    The
TV responded,
    help
us
    His
first instinct was to get the holy hell out of the house and bolt the
door behind him. He forced himself to resist it.
    He
knew the machine bugs had been inside his set; this, he supposed, was
why.
    He
took a large step backward and sat down, not quite voluntarily, on
the sofa.
    He
licked his lips.
    He
said, "Who are you?"
    help
us faded
out. The screen was blank a few seconds; then new letters emerged:
    we
are almost complete
    Communication, Tom
thought. His heart was still battering against his ribs. He
remembered a toy he'd once owned—a Magic 8-Ball; you asked it a
question and when you turned it over a message appeared in a little
window: yes or no or
some cryptic proverb. The letters on his TV screen appeared the same
way, welling up from shadowy depths. The memory was peculiar but
comforting.
    He
set aside his coffee cup and thought a moment.
    "What
do you want from me?"
    Pause.
    proteins
    complex
carbohydrates
    Food, he
thought. "What for?"
    to
finish building us
    "What
do you mean—you're not finished?"
    to
finish us
    Apparently,
it was the only answer they meant to give. He considered his next
question. "Tell me where you come from." The pause was
longer this time.
    tom
winter you don't need to know
    "I'm
curious. I want to
know."
    tom
winter you don't want to know
    Well,
maybe not.
    He
sat back, managed a sip of coffee, and tried to assemble in his mind
all the questions that had been vexing him since he moved in.
    "What
happened to the man who used to live here?"
    broken
    It
was an odd word, Tom thought. "What do you mean, broken?"
    needs
to be repaired
    "Is
he here? Where is he?"
    follow
us
    Into
the woods, they meant. "No. I don't want to do that yet. Are
you— repairing him?"
    not
finished
    "I
found the tunnel behind the wall," Tom said. "Tell me what
it is. Tell me where it goes."
    The
pause now was very long indeed—he began to think they'd given up.
Then more letters