Following Guardian’s recommendation, Bruce went to the Village Inn.

At the desk he said, “Good evening, Debra. What do you have for a weary traveler?”

Debra smiled, delighted. “At last. Proof the money paid for my name tag wasn’t a total waste.”

Bruce chuckled.

She continued, “How long do you plan to stay?”

“Three nights.”

“We have a very nice jacuzzi suite with a balcony and a queen bed. There’s no kitchenette, but it does have a refrigerator.”

“Sounds perfect.”

She gave him a key card and said, “It’s room 201.” She handed him a larger card. “And this is your parking permit for our lot.”

“Thanks.”

He went out and hung the parking permit from his rear view mirror. Back inside, he picked up the handle to his rolling bag and went to the elevator. In his room, he checked out the bathroom and the balcony, then took his packed clothes out and hung them on the bar provided. On the night stand was a pamphlet next to the phone advertising local attractions. Bruce picked it up and looked through it. The amateur theater was at the top of the list. He noted the address and left the room.

In the lobby he showed the address to Debra. “How far is that from here?” he asked.

“It’s about four blocks.”

“Good. A nice walk.”

“If you don’t have a ticket, you should go right away so you can get a good seat. Even on week nights the best seats are always taken.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

Bruce enjoyed his walk to the theater. The sidewalks were adorned with sculptures, some beautiful, some intriguing, and some that made him wonder what was wrong with the artist. He realized the last category made him think, so he decided that must be the point.

He was very pleased with his seat but he got restless waiting for the production to begin. The discussion with Guardian kept running annoyingly through his mind. He tried to distract himself by reviewing what he knew about the play.

His mind wandered. I wonder if they messed with the dialogue much. I wonder where old Will got the idea for this one. I wonder what ancient Greek work he stole it from. He smiled to himself at that. Then the play started, and he forgot everything but what was happening on the stage. He became so involved in the entertaining shenanigans, he was disappointed when it was over.

As he left the theater, his time with Guardian earlier in the day intruded again into his thoughts, playing over and over. He was exhausted by the time he got to his room, but he didn’t expect to sleep well. The day had been so strange, he was beginning to doubt it had actually happened. He needed a good night’s sleep. He set the alarm to make sure he would have time for breakfast before meeting Guardian in the morning.

If this had happened at home I would have just brushed it off. Here, though, away from all that’s familiar, I feel lost, as if anything could happen.

He brushed his teeth and fell into bed. He expected to be doing some tossing and turning, but he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. When his clock buzzed in the morning he didn’t remember anything after crawling under the blanket.

Amazing, he thought. I feel incredibly well rested. It must be the fresh air, the good food, the pleasant comedy.

He rose and prepared for the day. The inn provided a continental breakfast in a small room near the desk. He sat at a tiny round table and was pleased to see a daily paper from his own city left there by an earlier patron. He drank a cup of coffee and ate a caramel roll while he browsed the paper. After a few minutes he put it down in disgust. Nothing but murder and mayhem.

He finished breakfast and rose to go out.

“Have a nice day, Mr Harrington,” the clerk said.

“Thanks. You, too.” He walked out the door and almost bumped into the troll.

“Good morning, Mr Harrington.” She almost sounded like she was singing, her voice was so musical. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Excellent. Are you ready to meet Remembering Rock?”

He grimaced, no longer sure it was a good idea.

“Mr Harrington, are you having second thoughts?”

“No, no, no. Just let me put my bag away.” He stowed the bag in his vehicle. “Shall I drive?”

“If you like, but it is a very nice walk, and not far.” She pointed at the grove.

He straightened and looked. “Why not? I could use the exercise.”

The walk was, as Guardian promised, pleasant. When they reached the grove, Bruce could see there was no way in. The trees were very close together and he knew from experience how it felt to push through evergreen trees. “How do you get in? Is it open on the other side?”

“Most people can’t get in at all, but you’ve been invited. It will be no problem. You can pass at any point around the circle.”

He looked doubtful.

“Try it. Walk right up to the trees and see what happens.”

Bruce looked at her and raised his eyebrows. She nodded encouragingly.

“Okay, here I go.” He took a big breath and strode briskly toward the grove, but shied aside, as if embarrassed, before he got there. This is just silly.

Guardian looked amused. “You don’t have to walk so fast,” she said. “It might be easier to keep going, if you take it easy.

He took another deep breath. “Okay, here I go,” he said again. This time he walked slowly toward the grove. The closer he got, the slower he walked. Just as he was close enough to touch the trees, he could hear the breeze pick up a little. The trees seemed to sigh, and the branches rustled as they gave way before him. He looked from side to side in disbelief as he walked, the branches brushing against him lightly, caressingly. Guardian followed him inside the grove.

“What happened?” he asked, a catch in his voice. “What happened?”

Guardian said only, “You were invited.”

Bruce looked around the clearing. It looked like a perfect circle, about two hundred yards in diameter. “I didn’t realize it was so big in here.”

“Yes. It can hold quite a big crowd.”

The breeze sighed and murmured around the two as they stood near the trees. Bruce felt his eyes pulled toward the shape in the center of the meadow.

“Remembering Rock,” he said unnecessarily.

“Yes.”

They walked to the stone.

Bruce studied the shape. “It looks like a sculpture of two people reclining on a rock with their arms linked.”

“Yes.”

“So, what do I do? Do I lay on one of the people?”

“Not necessarily, but you can. Or you can lie on one of the pairs of linked arms. As you can see, they are carved in relief on the rock. There is plenty of stone in any of the four directions to support you.”

“What difference does it make which side I choose?”

“I can’t say. There are those who say the direction you choose is related to the memories you experience.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some say this. If you choose to face north, your memories are related to such things as cold, death, winter, and ice. If you choose to face south, your memories are related to opposite things, such as heat, birth, summer, and water. If you choose east, your memories are related to light, happiness, family, and youth. If you choose west your memories are related to darkness, sadness, business or industry, and age.”

“Sounds like I’d better choose south or east.”

“Think deeper. You are assuming the characteristics of north and west are bad, and south and east are good, but it isn’t that simple. What if there were no death? There could be no birth or the earth would soon be overrun with people, animals and plants. Without sadness there is no happiness. Every characteristic of each direction is important and necessary. They are neither good nor bad. They just are.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Indeed.” She paused. “You may choose at any time.”

Bruce circled the stone. Should I feel a pull toward one side? How do I know which to choose? He turned and paced the other direction around. Good grief. It doesn’t matter. I don’t believe this stuff, anyway. Just sit anywhere.

He stopped and sat down.

“Lie back. Relax.”

He did. Which way am I facing? He was embarrassed to realize he didn’t know. He knew he was on one side with linked arms, and he was pretty sure he remembered one pair of arms faced east and the other west. And, let’s see. The woman was facing north and the man south. Ah, he was facing east. He knew it was silly, but he was relieved he wasn’t facing west. He closed his eyes.

He was young, maybe four or five. He was in his bed. There were sheep sounds coming from the kitchen. He was sure that’s what it was. Sheep sounds. Ssshhhh. Ssssshhh. Kind of like air blowing through something. No one was in the kitchen. What was making that sound? He was so afraid. He wanted to run to his mother for comfort, but only his bedroom was on this side of the kitchen. Not just the kitchen, but also the dining room and living room were in between his bedroom and those of his parents, his brother and his sister. . So much distance between him and everyone else. He got out of bed and stood in the doorway between his room and the kitchen. The sounds were coming from the sink. Whatever it was must be in the pipes. What if it came out of the faucet? He drew upon every ounce of courage he had and sprinted across the kitchen floor as fast as he could. He turned and raced to his parents’ room.

“Mama,” he whispered urgently. “Mama!”

“Mmmm, wha…,” his mother mumbled.

“Mama, I’m scared.”

“Wha’ is it?”

“There’s sheep sounds in the sink.”

“What?” She was awake now. “Don’t be ridiculous, Brucie. You’re just trying to cause trouble again. Why do you love to aggravate me so much? Now get back to bed this instant.”

Bruce was devastated. Mama wasn’t going to help him. Worse, she expected him to cross the dangerous kitchen floor again. He started to cry.

“Brucie! Shut up! You’ll wake everybody up.” Mama flung herself out of bed and snatched Bruce roughly into her arms. She marched with him back to his room.

“I don’t want to go back to my room,” Bruce wailed.

“Be quiet or I’ll spank you with the buckle end of a belt,” Mama warned harshly.

Bruce tried to stifle his weeping, but the tears poured relentlessly down his cheeks and he started to cough. Mama dumped him unceremoniously on his bed and pushed his head down to the pillow.

“Now stay here and go to sleep,” she hissed. “And stop that coughing.” She turned and left the room.

Bruce huddled under his blankets, trying not to cry or cough. The effort made his chest and throat ache. Then he realized he wasn’t hearing any noises. No “sheep” noises coming from the kitchen. He listened hard as long as he could and finally he fell asleep. In the morning his mother was brusque with him but made no reference to his fearful night visit.

Bruce’s eyes popped open. He looked around without lifting his head. Guardian was sitting on a stump a short distance away, humming to herself. I had forgotten all about the “sheep” noise. Tears sprang into his eyes. I can’t believe any mother would act like that. Didn’t she love me? The tears escaped his lashes and ran down his cheeks. His eyes closed.

He was maybe six years old. He was standing in the living room of their tiny new house. He had been playing, but he started feeling sad. He stopped playing and sat down. He wondered why he was sad, but he didn’t know. Nothing had happened. He was just sad. He felt so bad, he started to cry. His mother was there.

“Brucie, why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come here, baby,” and she picked him up and cuddled him.

He put his head on her shoulder and let the tears flow. She didn’t say a word, just held him and rocked him gently. He felt so safe, so loved.

His eyes opened and he lay, thinking. How could the same person behave so differently? He sat up. He felt a little lightheaded, so he was glad when Guardian extended her hand to steady him as he stood. He looked at her, puzzled.

“Now what?”

“Let’s go inside,” she said and nodded her head toward the west side of the grove.

He turned and looked. “Oh!” He hadn’t noticed the small building tucked into the trees. It blended in well.

“My home,” she said.