Tibia Prime

When we were kids, my sister and I rode our bikes through the graveyard. On the little gravel paths (where the cars were not allowed), under the oaks and willows, past the solemn wood benches and leaf-strewn lawns, we pedaled the slow turns and silent stones like shadow navigators. We never raced and never raised our voices; we were smart kids. We rode mostly after dinner, when there was about an hour of light left in the sky and the crunch of the gravel under our wheels echoed thinly against the graves…a long time ago.

Our bikes were old, even back then. The rims and some of the spokes were caked with a layer of rust. Any remaining paint was faded and peeling. The bottom had fallen out of the basket that used to attach to the front of my sister's bike. The small flag that once proudly vibrated in the wind from my left handle bar had long since disappeared, leaving only its miniature, bent tin rod pointing up. Now, it seemed more like a dilapidated antenna - receiving a different type of message on those cemetery evenings. Marble and bone.

The bikes were too big for us, too. My sister, being four years older than me, fitted her bike a little better. I couldn't really sit on the torn seat but pedaled standing up, hanging tightly on to the handlebars. I won't even go in to the groaning brakes on those things. Actually, the best parts were their little headlights, balanced crookedly on top of the front tire rim. As most of the old-style lights, their brightness depended on how fast the wheels were turning. It was connected by a thin tube to the front wheel, gathering friction for power. At top speed, say, on the way to the reservoir on Saturday afternoons, each of our lights would burn like a little sun, ready to burst from the edges. While among the graves, though, we made our way slowly.

So my headlight didn't illuminate much. It would spark and shine when I put my weight down on one of the pedals, but only a dim, yellow glow. In between forward motions, the light sputtered and went out. At most, it pulsed in time to some obscure rhythm, swallowed by the dripping trees, lost. My sister's wasn't much better. Any ghost spying on us during our trek through the paths would have been amused by the two unsteady eyes of dull and forgotten gold wobbling in and out of the tombstones.

The cemetery was not that big, but its maze of tiny roads, walkways, and criss-crossing points of reference (like the tremendous mausoleum sitting next to a polished stone sculpture of one of the saints) made it seem almost endless, without entrance or exit.

We thought it fun to split up every now and then, riding off in the most mysterious direction imaginable to a child, and try to find one another minutes later - somewhere else. We kept our ears open for the gravel crunch and our eyes peeled for the golden eye. This was not hide and seek. There was no time for that kind of levity. Rather, it was just a way for us to wander on our own for a bit, spook ourselves a little (sailing through the dead), and be truly ready to find the other one when the time came. No yelling, no laughing, maybe just a smile and a whisper when we rejoined, riding single file under the early stars, grateful.

It was fairly uncommon for any other visitors to be with us in the graveyard. I guess most people paid their respects and did their visiting during the earlier part of the day. Occasionally we would quietly pass someone sitting on one of the benches or see a person standing over a grave in the distance.

We tried not to stare, though. And we did our best not to disturb them, because people need privacy when speaking with the deceased. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles or old friends: dropping the skin from their skeleton, six feet under the soil. I remember one time, however, when a visitor did not want me to just slide quietly by.

It was in the middle of fall, a half-hour or so before the sun disappeared. My sister and I had separated for a while, and I was rolling along at a crawl (headlight doing its best to blink out an ancient, lost code) towards a sharp dog-leg to the left. As I navigated the turn, my light went out completely because I had to stop to negotiate the change in direction. Then I headed down a long familiar stretch that ran beside a parade of tombstones. I could almost read the carefully etched letters just a few yards away. It was here that I caught sight of a fairly tall figure standing, hands in the pockets of a gray suit.

Not long before twilight...I was a kid. The sight of him (like any visitor) triggered the imaginary stealth mode that I liked to employ when in the vicinity of other people in the cemetery. I imagined that no sound escaped from my tires, no outline from my body, no glow from the eye. The closer I got to him, the more of his shape I could make out. I was surprised to find that the visitor was not facing one of the graves. Instead, his chest was pointed towards the path. His eyes were pointed at me. I thought maybe he was waiting for me to pass, so that he could cross the road and start on his way home. Maybe that wasn't the case, though.

I was almost upon the man (I now realized he was very old) when I saw his mouth open and sensed that he was speaking to me. The beam of my dim light helped little in revealing his words. It briefly occurred to me that I should stop and talk with him, otherwise I might seem rude. But, by the time I was close enough to hear what he was saying, I had already decided to trudge on slowly, remain in stealth mode, pretend that he couldn't possibly have anything to say to a kid on a broken-down bike. After all, I was not buried beneath the earth or even thinking the thoughts of a dead person. I wasn't even really a guest, just a small shadow on the lawns. No, nothing like this had ever happened before.

And, mid-pedal, the visitor said (voice like a remote stack of years), Oh,...you've got your bike there..."

He said it as if he was thinking how natural and wonderful it was to see me riding along carefully on that particular evening. Seconds passing – just like that - the sun all but hidden from view. I did my best not to look at him while moving by and felt relieved that he had not asked me a direct question. I was not scared. I just wanted to leave him behind to his wonder and find my sister soon. I didn't look back. After going about ten yards past, though, I heard him (in between the crunches of gravel beneath me) say,

"She's buried out here, somewhere. I thought it was here."

Though I didn't see, I knew he was turning back to the line of graves once more to see if he could find the one he was searching for. It would be his last chance, because very soon it would be too dark to make out the names on the stones. Especially if you were old, especially without my dark, golden headlight to guide him. Flickering like a phantom in the autumn air, blinking gradually with my pauses.

It didn't take very long to catch a glimpse of my sister's headlight. She was coming right towards me, maybe a minute or two away. It was time to head back. I knew she saw me, too, but there was no need to yell. No need to wave or make a scene. There was hardly even a need to say a word. And by the time we regrouped, the visitor was gone - swallowed by the soft distance.

Perhaps he simply joined up with the parade, took his place and moved on. I didn't mention it to her. For all I knew, she had encountered the same thing on her ride. She's braver than I am, however. Her headlight was far brighter. Maybe she had an answer for her visitor. I did not.

Seconds passed. Years passed. We filed out, golden. My antenna snatched the sweet static from the sky, assuring me that I was right: Leave the restless ones alone. Soon enough they'll be beautiful and resigned.