September 21, 1980
Sunday evening.
Dear Diary,
I never thought that I would be writing a diary. I always thought that it was a pointless thing to do and that I would be better off spending my time writing stories or letters or something useful. However, here I am, beginning a diary — well, an exercise book anyway. I won’t give my diary a ridiculous name, like Anne Frank did, but I do feel the need to write down what I am feeling, to tell someone all about it.
The problem is that I have no one to talk to about Steve, no one on earth that I can tell about him. I suppose I could tell the Judge. He, more than anyone else, would be likely to understand. But I’m afraid that even the Judge won’t believe me, won’t understand. I mean, would anyone believe that I am meeting a boy from 1870? It sounds insane!
I’ve seen Steve twice more since that Sunday when he finally believed that I am from the future. We meet on Sundays when he doesn’t have to work in his father’s store, and we spend all afternoon in the graveyard. In spite of me not being able to mention the wonders of the twentieth century, we seem to find lots to talk about — and to laugh about. Today I forgot all about the time, so I was late getting home and Mom was really angry with me. She didn’t have to work this Sunday evening and we were going to do some sewing together. I didn’t get home until almost seven and it was beginning to get dark. She was furious.
It seems strange that Steve and I can find so much to talk about, but we do. People and families don’t seem to have changed much in a hundred years, even if science and technology have. Steve’s told me a lot about his little sister, Amy. She died the first spring they were in Barkerville, and he still misses her terribly. I wonder if today’s doctors and modern medicines could have saved her? I’ve never had anyone close to me die. It must be a hard thing to go through.
He’s also told me about coming to Barkerville just after the Great Fire in 1868. The store that they were going to buy had burned down and they had to rebuild it. The whole town seems to have been rebuilt very quickly after the fire. It’s no wonder there weren’t any trees around the town — they were all used for building.
I’ve been able to talk to Steve about my Dad. I still miss Dad a lot, even after nearly three months. I am able to tell Steve things that I can’t tell anyone else. He doesn’t laugh at me or tell me to snap out of it, the way Mom does. I haven’t had a friend like Steve ever in my life. Not that the Judge isn’t a great person, but he’s so much older and besides he’s spending a lot of time with Mom lately — if you can believe it! But Steve is different, and very special. He makes the boys at school seem like overgrown children with their dumb music and sports. When he gets serious about something his eyes seem to turn a darker green and he rubs the side of his nose where he broke it when he was six.
Oh, oh! I’m sounding like Candy from school who is always talking about boys and how cute they are and how crazy she is about this one or that one.
Time to go to bed, I guess. It’s been good to write this down. I wish I could see Steve more often than on Sundays, even if it is every Sunday. I wish I could tell some one about him. I wish — oh; well. Good night.
October 5, 1980
Sunday night.
Dear Diary,
I haven’t done much writing in you, have I? Well, I didn’t promise to write every day, just when I needed someone to talk to. And mostly when I needed someone to talk to about Steve. I haven’t written about our last few meetings, but today something strange happened and I need to talk about it.
It was cold today when I went up to the graveyard, and I was wearing a funny hat that Mom crocheted for me last year and jeans and my hiking boots. Steve laughed at me and said that I didn’t look like a young lady at all but rather like one of the miners who comes into the store. Then he got a funny look in his eye and said, “Hey! You’re dressed just right. Why don’t we go down into town and you can see what Barkerville is like in my time?”
I laughed and said it wouldn’t work, but then I started wondering what Barkerville in 1870 would look like. “Why not,” I said. I made sure my hair was tucked up under my hat and we went out of the graveyard. Steve kept his eyes on me as we walked down the trail. The further we went, the more his expression changed to one of astonishment. Finally he stopped and said in a tight voice, “Bess, I don’t think we should go any further.” I laughed and called him a chicken, but he just stared at me strangely and said, “Look at your hand, Bess. Look at your hand!”
I looked, and I nearly died. I almost wasn’t there! I mean I could see my hand, but I could see right through it as well. I could see the pebbles on the path right through my skin! I thought I was going to be sick for a moment, and I put my hands to my face. It was still there. I could feel it. Only the ring on my finger remained totally visible. The rest of me — clothes, boots, everything — had sort of melted into a mist of some kind. Steve said that he could see right through me!
I got frightened and turned around to go back. I was afraid that I would disappear completely. Then Steve tried to grab my hand, but he couldn’t hold on to it! My hand just wasn’t there, at least not for him. I could feel it fine though.
For a few seconds, he stood there with a stupid look on his face and kept trying to grab my hand. His hand swept right through mine as if it were smoke. I could feel his hand sort of brush mine, but he couldn’t feel my hand at all.
We both ran back to the graveyard, scared, and I think I was almost crying. The closer we got to our special spot the more real I looked. By the time we got there I was totally visible and solid again.
Then — well, he took my hand and he could feel it because he said it was smooth and soft. He held it and pulled it to his face and, very gently, he turned it over and kissed the palm. “I was afraid I’d lost you.” That was all he said. We stood there and sort of looked at each other for a while, and I felt myself beginning to blush. Then he dropped my hand and said, “You’d better go home now.”
I went. Now I’m here in bed, writing all this down, and trying to understand what happened.
Why do I turn into a ghost away from the graveyard? Is it because it was there that I found the ring? The ring seems to exist in both of our times. I mean, Steve lost it in 1870 and I found it in 1980 but it couldn’t have been lying there for all those years or someone else would have found it, I’m sure. Does the ring have some sort of power over the change in time that only works in that one spot? I don’t understand at all. I don’t think I’ll try to go down the hill to Barkerville again, though. I wonder if I’d disappear into thin air? We’ll both stay right there, at our special spot in the graveyard, and forget about the rest of the world, his time and my time.
He kissed my hand!
Dear Diary,
It got really cold today in the graveyard. It’s been getting colder every Sunday for the last three weeks, and today it was bitter! I wonder if it is 1980 weather or 1870 weather at the cemetery. Does the weather change too, when I turn the ring? It always seems the same in Steve’s time as it is in my time. I guess I’ll never know for sure.
Mom was really mad at me for going to Barkerville today. She says that she can’t understand what the fascination is with a deserted old graveyard in almost the middle of winter and why don’t I stay home Sundays and have some friends over.
That’s fine for her to say. She and the Judge went into Quesnel for dinner and a show yesterday, and she’s joined an artists’ group and goes to meetings once a week with her easel and paints. She isn’t stuck in this awful town with only five other people her own age.
Anyway, the cold worked out well today because Steve and I sat close together. He put his arms around me and held me next to him while we talked. It was such a warm, comfortable feeling to be sitting there with him, snug in spite of the cold.
We talked. We were both wondering how long we can go on meeting here. Winter is on its way, and there will be a lot of snow and temperatures down to minus forty! Since the weather seems to be the same in both our times, we decided that we’d be sensible about it and not even try to meet if it’s too cold. I hope it never gets too cold!
Anyway, we talked and we laughed. Then, just before I left he put his hand under my chin and sort of tilted back my head and kissed me. I blushed; I know I did because he laughed and said he didn’t mind my blushing, that it was “maidenly”.
Oh, dear Diary, I really am in trouble. I think I’m falling in love! But how can I fall in love with someone who doesn’t exist. I mean, of course he exists. He kissed me, didn’t he? But he doesn’t exist here and now and he can never be here, in Wells, with me. He can never meet my Mom or take me to a dance or a movie. He’s dead, in my time. Even if he lived to be a hundred years old he would have died almost thirty years ago! I can’t fall in love with someone who isn’t alive, can I? Oh, I don’t know what I mean. I’m happy and sad all at once and at the same time I know the whole thing is impossible and should never be happening. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? Oh, Steve.
November 23, 1980
Sunday night.
Dear Diary,
Today was the first time for three weeks that Steve and I have been able to meet. I missed him, very much; almost as much as I miss Dad. It got very cold late in October and I couldn’t go to Barkerville. Then it began to snow. It snowed and it snowed and it snowed! We never had snow like this in Vancouver. It just kept on coming down, day after day. All the roads in town have been cleared but every empty lot is piled up with snow well over my head. I wonder when it will finally all be gone? In the spring? May? June?
As soon as it started to snow, all the kids hauled out their cross-country skis and started skiing everywhere — even to school. I’d never been on any kind of skis before, but Janice lent me hers one day and helped me a bit. It’s fun, and not nearly as hard as I thought it would be. You have to learn how to glide then give a little push. Once you get the rhythm it’s quite easy. The hardest part is learning how to handle those great long skis so you aren’t tripping over your toes all the time.
I guess Mom is trying to make up for being so bad tempered lately, because she went into Quesnel and bought me my own set of skis and boots. Even a warm jacket with matching pants. (You wear short pants, sort of like knickers, for cross-country skiing, with long, thick wool socks.) The outfit is blue, and the skis are the kind that never have to be waxed before you use them, so all I have to do is put them on and off I go.
I spent a lot of time learning to ski, and today it warmed up to just below freezing and I wondered if I could make it to Barkerville on skis. I’d done the eight kilometers often enough on my bike, and I thought I could manage it on my skis. I figured that it would be warmer in Steve’s time, too, and he would go to the graveyard hoping that I could get there. I wanted to see him so much!
So, after Mom had gone to work, I got dressed in my ski outfit, filled a canteen with juice and packed an extra pair of mitts and a small thermal blanket in my backpack, and started out.
I thought that I had become a pretty good skier, but those eight kilometers were hard to manage. There was a skidoo trail beside the road all the way into Barkerville, but it was slick and icy in some spots and I took some bad falls. But, I kept on going and finally reached the graveyard trail. I left my skis at the foot of the trail. There was no way I was ready to try that steep trail, either up or down, with skis on!
The climb up was hard, too. Someone had plowed some sort of trail, but there had been a new snowfall and it wasn’t much of a path. I was exhausted and covered with snow by the time I reached the cemetery.
I waded through the deep snow between the graves, turning myself into a sort of human snow plow. Finally, I reached the big pine tree and my special grave. The graveyard looked so different covered with snow. The tombstones seemed to be only half their regular height and wore tall white caps that made them look like they were wearing costumes. The wooden fences around the graves were half buried in snow and looked as if they had been iced with fluffy white icing. It was pretty, in a strange sort of way, but seemed lonelier than it did before the snow came.
Well, I turned the ring. I guess it was because I haven’t made the change for a while, because I felt dreadfully sick this time. When everything settled down, I opened my eyes, and as the mist cleared I could see Steve! I ran to him as quickly as I could in the deep snow, and he picked me up and hugged me and said, “I was hoping you would come today, Bess. I’ve missed you so much!” Then he gave me a long kiss, still holding me up so my feet didn’t touch the ground.
Oh, dear Diary, it was so good to see him again! I was sweaty and tired from the trip and my muscles were beginning to stiffen up, but I felt like singing!
We scooped away a hollow in the snow and I spread the insulating blanket. Steve made fun of my ski outfit, especially the boots with the long toes and the three holes that the skis latch into. We talked and laughed and tried to hold hands without taking off our mitts. Finally Steve pulled my ski mitt off and took my hand in his and covered both of them with the scarf he had been wearing around his neck. The sun was shining, making the snow throw off little sparkles, and chickadees were singing in a bush nearby. I felt happier than I’d ever felt in my life!
Then we suddenly heard a voice calling from the entrance to the graveyard! We both jumped, and turned around to listen. There had never been anyone else in the graveyard before when Steve and I met. Sound carries easily through the winter air and we could hear the words clearly. “Steven? Steven, are you there?”