Present Day, November 11
William heard music. Bolder music than he'd ever heard before, with more instruments playing at once. Turning into the bright sunlight, he saw its source. A large group of musicians played just outside the cemetery, only a short distance from where he stood every eleventh of November. Last year, there had been no music, no red, white and blue flags, no cameras for television news people. This year, he saw total devastation of one block of homes, separate from the rest of the town. What had happened here?
He shivered, taking a deep breath, but smelled nothing save for a tinge of automobile smoke. It was truly November, and though the marked areas for the dead always chilled him, today the sheer number of grave markers overwhelmed him. So many more than last time, so many more fancy stones appeared every year that William could only shake his head at the waste. Oh, he knew that war piled dead atop dead, rapidly. But there had been no war, as he defined the term, on this soil for the last century.
Every year, for ten years now, William had found himself standing in this cemetery on this holiday, left to walk the town for several days. Each year the townsfolk smiled at him, waved, asked for him to pose with them for photographs, and called him a 're-enactor.' Each year he learned more about the time, and its people, but a 're-enactor' he was not.
He wore Union blue because he'd served with Northern troops. To William, it was only yesterday that he'd helped a wounded lad find his way home, relieved as everyone that the war was over. Knowing he'd end up here for this mysterious annual ritual, he'd donned the threadbare uniform this morning so he'd blend in with the war "re-enactors" of the future.
To the men and women he saw now standing in the cemetery, dressed in solemn clothing, that surrender would have occurred over one hundred thirty years ago. No, he was not a play actor, but he let them think that. It was better than being thought insane.
Looking down, William did a quick inspection of his dull blue trousers and faded coat, noting the familiar burnt cuff from an argument he'd had with a lantern on the floor of a friend's barn.
William began to walk, tracing the line of spiked metal fence which enclosed the stone church and its land. Rusted in places, the fence changed only slightly each year. Its gate still swung open with a squeak and groan, and he pushed on it, setting it in motion with the cold breeze.
"It needs oiling."
William turned to find a lovely young lady watching him. She was dressed like the other mourners he'd observed, in dark clothing, but wore a skirt so short that William could see most of her long, slim legs and trim ankles.
He swallowed.
"Are you here for the Veteran's Day parade?" She smiled, showing straight white teeth. With one hand, she reached down and tugged at the hem of her skirt.
William said nothing, just nodded as he always did when confronted by these people from the future. After the first few visits, he'd learned to be non-committal, agreeable with their assumptions, because that was how he'd survived these altered time passages.
"My name's Stacy Martin," the woman said, moving toward him and extending a slender hand with nicely groomed nails.
Surprised, William took it, closing it gently between his own, larger hands. "William Madiston, ma'am." The small ring she wore pressed into his palms, and her skin felt warm next to his. William's heart beat faster, and he felt a tug in his chest.
This had never happened here before.
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