Rating: PG-13 due to emotive content.
Warnings: have a tissue handy.

Thanks to Obi, as always, for her invaluable help. Thanks also to Danae, who wanted a softer ending :)

Pack Up the Moon
by Shelly

Blair Sandburg huddled further into his coat as he trudged up the stairs to the Loft. Winter. He hated it. It seemed to push down upon him and demand silence and detachment. For someone who loved noise, and being in the centre of things, it was a hard road to hoe.

Fumbling for the key in his coat pocket, he opened the door to the loft with a savage shove. It bounced back upon him with a little karmic revenge.

"Shit." He grinned, in spite of himself, at his childishness and used a finger to push open the door with exaggerated care. The place was in darkness. Jim wouldn't be home until after eight. The detective was putting in some overtime on the Porter case.

Blair turned on the light, and shrugged out of his heavy coat, hanging it on the hooks in the kitchen. Searching through his backpack, he found the letters he had collected from the postbox downstairs and placed them on the coffee table.

He placed the tip of his middle finger on the pile and then shook his head. Putting off the inevitable, he unpacked his Anthropology texts and took them into his room. He changed into a warm sweater and went to light the fire. The flames softened into a golden blaze and sent shadows furring up the walls. Blair stood staring into the fire for a long moment before walking to the couch... and the waiting mail.

Taking the pile of letters into his hand, he sat down heavily on the couch. He began to lecture himself. It would be here. He would look through the letters and get to the very last one and it would be here. No question about it. Today was the day.

He began to read the addresses on the letters, carefully placing the discarded ones on the table. When he reached the second last letter, he closed his eyes and willed the last one to be for him.

The last letter was addressed to Jim. Blair tossed it onto the table and wrapped his arms around himself. He walked out onto the balcony. It was freezing and he began to shiver. The end of the day was a mere wink. Darkness sealed itself to the white ground and a fingertip of moon touched the sky.

__________________________________________________________________

Jim Ellison stopped before the door of the loft. He could see the light slipping out from underneath and he smiled. Blair was home. Extending his senses, he listened to the sounds from inside: the refrigerator humming; a candle guttering in its well of wax and the sizzle of food cooking in the kitchen.

How different these sounds of home were from the silence of a few years ago. Back then, he had opened the door to darkness every evening. Darkness and fear. He had thought he was losing his mind when his senses had gone haywire and sent him on a roller coaster ride into a very scary world. He never knew when, or how, they would kick in. He would look for his truck in a car park and all of a sudden be focused on a bird in a tree a mile away. There was one day when he was chasing a suspect down an alley. Without warning, his sense of smell had exploded. He'd bent over double at the disgusting stench from a sewer, and the suspect had disappeared onto the busy street.

Then a choreography of noise and light had spun into his world in the shape of Blair Sandburg. The young anthropologist had somehow managed to get past the anger and confusion and, with faith-inducing words, had pulled all the skeins of the mystery together. He had explained the Sentinel theory in such a way that it made sense of his jumbled world.

So now Jim Ellison, Detective, was a Sentinel coming to terms with the fact that he was the protector of the city of Cascade. He was increasingly in control of his heightened senses thanks to Sandburg. Noisy, indomitable Blair. Funny, steadfast Blair. Best friend and Guide, Blair.

The Sentinel smiled as he turned the key to open the door, and once again pushed Blair Sandburg's name to the top of his list of blessings.

"Hey, Chief. How was your day?" Jim peeled off his coat and headed over to see what Blair was preparing. He sniffed appreciatively.

The answer was grumpy. "It was cold. What else?" Blair pushed his long, dark hair back from his face. "It was cold, wet, busy. Oh...and hey did I mention that it was cold?"

Jim chuckled as he began to set the table. "What happened to your sense of humour, oh cold and wet one?"

"I lost it." The words were petulant but a smile tugged at the corner of Blair's mouth.

"Are you joking?" Jim grinned widely and he raised an eyebrow at his friend.

Blair hid his smile. "I doubt it. I don't know if I lost it, if it was stolen or if it ran away. It was probably cold, too!"

The Sentinel could see his guide's dark mood lifting just a little, just enough to see Blair-humour shining through. He sat down at the table and pulled out a small notebook from his shirt pocket.

"Right, sir. You say you'd like to report a missing sense of humour? Perhaps you can describe it for us, Mr Sandburg." Jim pulled a pen from his pocket and held it to the notepad with a flourish.

With a distinct twinkle in his blue eyes, the younger man came and sat opposite Jim. "Uhhh. Let's see. A description. Well...it's black and slightly bent." He flashed a winning smile at his friend who started to laugh.

"I see, Mr Sandburg. Well, have you checked all the hospitals?"

"It's *not* sick," protested Blair, only slightly miffed. "Well, not *really* sick."

Jim pretended to write in the notebook. "Not sick. Hmmmm. So when did you last see this alleged sense of humour?"

"Ummm. Oh yeah. I had it last Friday when I said something hilarious."

"Do you have any witnesses that can verify its presence?"

Blair shook his head with feigned sorrow. "No. The friend I was with didn't think what I said was funny."

"Well...what did you say?"

"I said, 'Hey man, how about we take the day off and go fishing instead'."

The Sentinel ducked his head to hide his smile. "Your friend's right. That's not funny. Can you think of any other incidents where your humour may have been present?"

Studying the roof line of the loft, Blair thoughtfully considered the question. "Yeah. I think I had it back in Autumn. Yep. I remember it clearly."

"Well, sir. We do happen to have a sense of humour here that has been handed in. Let's see if it fits. Why did the Forensics' chief stare at the orange juice carton from morning until lunch? Because it said Concentrate."

Blair laughed loudly.

"Hey, it fits! That's good to hear, Chief. I kind of miss your stupid jokes. It's been a bit dark around here lately."

The young man's smile tilted and then disappeared. "Blame it on the weather. You know I hate the cold. You ready to eat?" He headed to the kitchen to dish up the meals.

'Way to go, Ellison.' Jim berated himself silently as he walked towards the bathroom to wash up. On his way back to the table he caught sight of the stack of mail on the coffee table and immediately knew the problem.

"So...it didn't come?" Jim's voice was tentative.

There was a small silence. Blair's words were steady, but soft around the edges. "No. It's been over two weeks. It's never been late before, ever. I think that something is wrong."

"It could be just lost in the mail, Blair."

"No. If it's not here by Friday, I'll have to go myself and find out."

The Sentinel watched as his guide ladled out the soup. The young man studiously avoided his friend's eyes by buttering his bread roll with consummate care.

"So..how is the Porter case coming along, man? Got any leads?"

Jim sighed. Change of subject. Typical avoidance tactics by Blair Sandburg, Almost-Doctor-of-Anthropology. He answered dutifully, knowing that his friend would not be pushed.

"Yeah. Simon's pretty pleased with the way it's going. We got two witnesses who are willing to testify that Porter was leaving the hotel on the night of the murder. All we got to do now is find him."

"Any ideas?"

The Sentinel grimaced. "We'll be watching his house and his girlfriend's place. I hate surveillance in this weather." He shuddered just thinking about trying to keep warm in the truck.

Blair raised his eyes and dropped a theatrically puzzled look onto his face. "Excuse me? What was that you were saying about the cold, Jim? I think perhaps that you have misplaced your sense of humour, man."

Jim put up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay, Chief. I get the point. You win!"

"No, Jim. I'm concerned. Do you have any reason to suspect that someone might have stolen your sense of humour?" Blair smiled up at his friend.

Rolling his eyes, Jim played along. "Well. Let's see now. I believe I did lend it to a friend of mine who needed a boost for a lecture he was giving on Greek Mythology. But if I remember rightly, he gave it back the very next day. It wasn't in its original condition. Somewhat warped. But it was returned."

Both men laughed and the conversation turned to safer topics.

Outside, it began to snow again, the new fall laminating itself to the ground, thickening the silence.

_______________________________________________________

Jim stopped the car outside the loft and sat for a moment. It was dawn, and the birds were already lifting the day by swaying ropes of sound. The frost glittered sharply on the ground.

Looking up, Jim could see light spilling from the loft. He let his senses drift upward and heard Blair slamming drawers and muttering to himself. He was obviously packing.

"Damn it, kid!!" The Sentinel slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel in utter frustration. There would be no talking Blair out of this.. but it was madness. Running off across the country because of a piece of mail that hadn't turned up.

Jim rubbed his hands over his face, trying to erase the tiredness, and then got out of the truck, slamming the door with unnecessary force.

As he entered the loft, the first thing he saw was Blair's backpack sitting on the kitchen bench. The kid was ready to go. There was a bus ticket lying next to Blair's wallet. Jim zeroed in on the ticket and saw that it was a return trip to Canada.

"Jim, hey! How did the surveillance go? Freeze a jolly good fellow!" Blair smiled broadly.

"Very funny. That sense of humour we found you sure fits well, doesn't it Chief! You going? I guess it didn't arrive today, then?"

"No. I tried phoning yesterday but got nowhere. So I'm going up there to check it out. Shouldn't be more than a week. You'll be okay, won't you?"

"Blair, don't you think it would be better to wait and let us check it out first? I mean the man may have just got caught up in real life. It's not a crime to forget someone's birthday." Jim's words were careful, and gentle. *Tread softly. Tread lightly.*

Blair let the act drop. A shoulder of silence nudged between the two men as the Guide struggled to frame the words he needed. Jim waited.

"He wouldn't. He wouldn't, you know, just forget." Blair moved to sit on the sofa and Jim followed, ready to listen and understand.

"I started University early, you knew that. It was kinda hard at first. I was younger than 'most everyone else. But I settled in and loved it, man. It was the first time that I felt that I was somewhere more than just a temporary watering place. Professor Canfield was like soooo amazing. He challenged every thought you had. Made you think on your feet. We had some great debates." A smile appeared on his face, lifted by memory.

"Anyway. The Professor invited me to dinner with him and his wife, Deborah. Now, she was a lady. It happened to be my birthday and when she found out she made me this great cake...and a card. I never got birthday cards. We shifted around so much no one ever knew the address, even if they wanted to send something. And Mom. Well, Mom's terrific. Always tried to ring me on the day...but never bothered with cards, ya know. Deborah told me that everyone should have a birthday card to pack away. She said that she would make sure I had one every year. And she did. Without fail. She died five years ago and then the Professor sent it each year. Except for this year." Blair stopped, brow furrowed, eyes pensive.

"You were close to them both, huh, Chief?"

"They kind of adopted me. I only had the Professor in my second year but he was the biggest influence on me. Just a great old guy. I know you think that it's crazy, but I just *feel* that something is wrong." There was an unspoken plea for understanding in Blair's words.

Jim smiled and nodded. "I do understand, Blair. I just don't want you getting into trouble."

The younger man grinned and brought both hands to his chest in a gesture of innocence. "Me? No way, man. That's not my style."

"Trust me, Chief. You are an absolute trendsetter when it comes to finding new and unusual ways to get into trouble." Jim's words were softened by a smile, but edged in concern.

Blair raised his hands in protest. "I was framed, man." The blue eyes that were so brooding a minute ago were now dancing with mischief.

The Sentinel marvelled at the mercurial nature of his friend. Nothing kept him down for long...which was a blessing considering the amount of trouble he *did* seem to attract.

"Blair, can't you just phone? Find out if he is there? You don't want to waste all that time travelling all the way up there to the cabin if he's not going to be there."

"There's no phone, Jim, but what can possibly happen? I'm going up to the cabin. It's the only place he can be. He loves it. I've been there heaps of times and I know that is where he would go." The young man stood up and moved past his friend, touching him on the arm as he brushed by, a gesture of conciliation. He hefted his weighty backpack and swung it with practised ease onto his shoulder. He was ready to go.

"Can you give me a lift to the bus station, Jim? Please?" Blair asked, knowing already what the answer would be. ______________________________________________________________

The quiet, numbing percussion of the bus tires on the road had eventually lulled Blair to sleep. His head rested against the window and he curled sideways in the seat. A squeak from protesting brakes woke him from a dream of the sea. He wondered what it meant. The waves had soughed in and out. Their wind-meandering changes reached to the edge of the shore, then further and further until he stood thigh deep in water. Soft, admonishing voices murmured beyond the dream and he could hear them still. Or perhaps it was the hum of the tyres.

Stretching himself as best he could in the confines of his seat, he wiped his hand across the sheen of fog his breath had left on the cold window pane. Outside, the Canadian countryside flashed by in a blur of beauty. Sunlight slid down mountain slopes like cream, pooling around the soft feet of early afternoon. It was easy to see why the Professor loved it here.

A dull, grey ache filtered through him as he thought of the man who had given him an armour against the world. In the classroom, the Professor took dusty questions, shook them out, and elicited shiny, new answers. He taught deeper than knowledge; the geometry of life, history in stones and the living languages of the past. He led the class, and a boy of seventeen, to see the tremendous unity of it all. Now...now there was something wrong. And Blair felt that it was something bad.

He sighed and rubbed his hands wearily across his eyes. A little hand snaked through the space between the seats and tapped him on the shoulder. Blair turned, and came face to face with a small, grave child. Her short, dark hair was heavy and straight; her eyes, watchful.

"Are you sad?" The child's voice was surprisingly deep and musical.

Blair leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. He turned again to the little girl and nodded.

"Uh huh. I just knew." She nodded wisely and patted his shoulder. "My Momma's asleep. You want I should come and sit next to you?"

Blair smiled at her. "Well now, I don't know. We haven't been introduced!"

Five small fingers wriggled further through the crack in the seat, reaching out to shake his outstretched hand.

"I'm Nicola. I'm six and my birthday's in eight more sleeps. Then I'll be seven."

He enfolded her small hand gently in his larger one, shaking it with care.

"Pleased to meet you Nicola. I'm Blair and I haven't been seven for a very long time."

She giggled enchantingly. "Brer?? I have a story about you, then. You're very clever."

Blair smiled. His name was always difficult for children to grasp. Usually it came out 'Bear'....Brer was a new one on him.

"So...you want me to come sit?"

"I'd love you to come sit, Nicola. I'd be honoured to have the company of such a beautiful, young lady." The compliment caused another ripple of giggles to burst forth from the child as she slipped into the seat beside him.

She grinned up at him, and then lowered her voice confidingly. "You could tell me why you are sad. Momma says I'm a good listener."

Blair opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. He felt like a hollow thesaurus; words would not come. A thin membrane of reasoning stretched for a moment and then tore. The feeling that slipped through was clear...and right.

Very softly he spoke. "I think I've lost a friend."

Nicola's dark eyes widened in sympathy. Saying nothing, she found his hand, then she just held it. Nothing more. They watched the scenery flashing by in quiet companionship.

"One day..." Nicola paused to see if her words were acknowledged by her new friend. He turned to look at her and nodded his encouragement.

"One day," she repeated, taking a big breath. "Momma and I were shopping at the Mall and she was taking ages to look at the clothes. It was soooo boring." The brown eyes rolled dramatically and Blair grinned.

"So, I went to look at the toys. There was a real neat Barbie car there. Anyway, I kept waiting for Momma and she didn't come. Then when she did, she was real cross with me. Said I was lost. But I wasn't. I was waiting." The small hands waved in exasperation.

There was a little silence. "Brer. Maybe your friend isn't lost either. Maybe he's just waiting."

Blair's eyes lit with thanks. "Oh, I hope so, Nicola. I really, really hope so."

"Nik?" A sleepy voice drifted from behind them. They both turned to see Nicola's mother peering over the top of the seat.

"Nik? Have you been bothering the gentleman?" The woman smiled apologetically at Blair who lifted his hands in a gesture of denial.

"No. She's definitely not been a bother. We've been solving the problems of the world. Haven't we, Nicola?"

The little girl nodded enthusiastically. "Momma, this is Brer. He's my friend."

Nicola's mother chuckled. "Brer? Rabbit, I presume?"

"Ah, no. Sorry to disappoint. That would be *Blair*. Blair Sandburg."

"Pleased to meet you, Blair. I'm Ali. Thanks so much for entertaining Nik. It's been a long journey." She sighed and ran her fingers through her dark hair, tumbling it into further disarray.

"Entirely my pleasure. She's been great company. Made the trip go a lot faster." Blair winked at Nicola and she waggled her fingers at him.

As the bus pulled into the bus station, Blair helped Ali and Nicola with their hand luggage. He lifted Nicola down from the steps of the bus, swinging her around before he put her on the ground. Her peal of laughter brought smiles to the faces of the other passengers.

Nicola reached up to pull on Blair's coat, and gestured for him to bend down. He knelt on the slushy pavement, at eye level with his young friend. Her eyes were serious and her voice was whisper soft.

"Remember. He's waiting." She nodded emphatically and touched his cheek with her mittened hand. "Don't be sad no more, Brer." Her small fingers lifted the edges of his mouth until he smiled for her.

Ali took her daughter's hand. "Come on, Sweetie. We've got to get a cab. It's freezing. Good luck, Blair. And thanks again."

Blair watched as they walked away, Nicola kicking out at the snow and laughing as it sprayed her mother. The little girl twisted around, opened and closed her hand in a wave and called out, "Bye bye, Brer. Remember." The word floated back to him.

Remember. ______________________________________________________________

Jim sighed loudly and kicked out against the sheets that were constricting him. He turned over onto his back, punching his pillow vindictively, as if it were to blame for his sleeplessness.

The night was slow and tedious. Each minute drummed with the wrong silence, the wrong noise, on the rigid tendons of his unease. He rolled over onto his side and thumped his hapless pillow yet again.

Out of the tension of silence came a chaos of sounds. The clock intoned the seconds like a bass drum. A tap dripping in the kitchen became a counter melody, rhythmic and annoying.

Flinging off the sheets, Jim swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He knew what was wrong. He was subconsciously heightening his sense of hearing in search of his Guide's heartbeat. But Blair wasn't here. Blair was in some godforsaken cabin, in the middle of the wilderness, on the strength of a *feeling*.

The Sentinel pulled on a t-shirt and padded down the stairs and through the dark loft. He switched on a lamp, casting a comforting glow across the room. Standing in front of the glass doors to the balcony, he looked out at the city lights, seeing his own image reflected in the backlit window.

Illuminated in the glass, a loosened shadow slipped across the loft. The panther. Jim could see it's muscled body rippling like watered velvet. It crouched there, with burning eyes gripping him in its stare. The rhythmic tail measured the seconds and the Sentinel felt its hot breath upon his body. Without turning, he placed his hand on the panther's head.

"Even when Sandburg's not here, he's driving me crazy."

There was a rumble of agreement from the panther.

Jim grinned wryly. "Oh sure. My spirit guide...William the Concurrer."

The panther gave another throaty purr.

_______________________________________________________________

After spending the night in a semi-decent hotel room, Blair had hitched a ride with a trucker who was travelling right past the turnoff to the Professor's cabin. If he had been thinking more clearly, he would have hired snow shoes. Walking was difficult and his jeans were soaked up to his knees.

He trudged determinedly through the snow trying desperately not to acknowledge the message that his feet were sending him. He was tired...and he was cold. Underfoot, the trampled snow was crackling and it was the only sound in a perfection of stillness. It seemed as if he had been walking for hours.

In the distance he could see the chimney of the cabin, billowing out soft flowers of smoke. It looked inviting and comforting. It just didn't look any closer.

After another forty minutes of struggling through the snow, each new lungful of air became a gift of infinite price. He walked with head down, dragging each leg forward in rhythmic slow motion. Bumping into a fence, he raised his eyes and his breath became an SOS of smoke signals. He'd made it. He swayed a little, his feet anchoring his body, and then pulled himself up the steps to the door of the cabin.

Before he could knock on the door, it flew open.

"What in God's name are you doing here?" The voice was not at all welcoming, and for an instant Blair wondered if he had found the right cabin.

Professor Gideon Canfield stood in the doorway of his home, glaring at his visitor. He was a tall, imposing figure. A mane of white hair was swept up off his high forehead and his grey eyes were icy cool. A moustache, once warrior-fierce, drooped down each side of his mouth.

Blair started to speak, his voice like a stone in his throat.

"I was worried about you. Professor?"

The older man's eyes were like narrow mirrors, no emotion rippled the surface. His voice was gruff. "No need. I'm doing just fine. I don't need it." The door slammed shut.

Reaching for the verandah post, Blair steadied himself and stared at the door. His stomach felt like a stalled aeroplane in the middle sky, starting to fall into a waiting ocean. What the hell was going on?

The door opened again. "You'd better come in. You'll never make it back to town before dark." The words were barked into the cold air.

Blair stepped tentatively into the darkened cabin. The curtains at the windows were drawn, making the room a mild prison of shadow and shade. He squinted at the Professor who had manoeuvred his considerable bulk into an armchair and was pouring himself a drink.

"Don't just stand there, boy. You might as well sit, now you are here." The professor gestured to the sofa.

He poured two generous glasses of whisky and handed one to Blair. Taking his backpack off and placing it by the door, Blair moved to sit on the sofa and rested his glass upon his knees.

The older man threw the liquid fire back with a practised, theatrical flourish of his arm and head. Blair sipped his drink slowly, preferring loss of balance and vision to happen in stages.

"Sir?" the young man's voice flowed with confusion.

"What shall we drink to, young one? To life? To memories?" The professor poured himself another glass of whisky, as if he could wash the bitter taste of the words from his mouth.

Blair tried again. "Sir, I think...."

"Yes. Yes, you do. Your mind is remarkable, young Blair. You come to me brimming with youth and sunny expertise. But life is larger than we guess. Mystery whispers at us. Can you hear it? Can you hear what it is saying? "

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Blair struggled to find some sense in what the professor was saying. He was bewildered. The professor that *he* knew, didn't drink. His name for alcohol was ABC..Assassin of the Brain Cells. For all that, it was fairly obvious that the two drinks just downed were not the first for the day. And it was still only the early afternoon.

Blair glanced around the large room that was the main living area of the cabin. It was filthy. Books and papers were strewn everywhere and unwashed dishes towered in the sink. Ash from the fireplace had sifted through the air and left a wash of grey dust over everything. Blair looked down into the golden liquid swirling in his glass. He didn't know what to do...and he didn't know what to say. He heartily wished that Jim was here to put some balance into the situation.

"Professor?"

The grey head was nodding, and a sonorous snore burst forth into the silence. The tension on the vulnerable, rubicund face of the Professor had drained away. His fingers twitched like dreaming cats. Blair gently took the tilting glass from his friend's hand and went to place it with the other dishes on the sink.

Standing shivering in the middle of the huge room, he made several quick decisions. Pulling some clothes from his backpack, he began to rub his legs, trying to get feeling back into them. He pulled on dry jeans and an oversized sweatshirt.

Running his fingers through his tangled, damp curls, he sighed...just once...and began to clean the cabin.

____________________________________

While the Professor slept heavily, Blair did what he could to make the cabin more comfortable. He'd washed all the dishes and stacked them behind the curtained storage area. He gathered up all the empty liquor bottles and put them around the side of the cabin, out of sight.

He hesitated when it came to tidying up all the books and papers. It seemed like an invasion of privacy, but still, it had to be done. He found an empty box, obviously from the liquor store, in the kitchen area. He collected all the books he could see. One lay open, face down, on the floor. When he picked it up, he could not help but see how well worn the pages were. The poem on the page was familiar to him, but seeing it here, in this context, he felt a talon of fear sliding down the tissues of his belly. He read Auden's lines in a soft voice:

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one Pack up the moon, dismantle the sun Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood For nothing now can ever come to any good.

"Shit, Professor." Blair closed his eyes and knew that he was out of his depth here. He placed the book carefully in the box .

_______________________________________

It was beginning to get dark outside. Blair stood in the doorway of the cabin, his arms full of wood, looking out at the listening woods. Star sharpened and cold-crisped, the night hung weightless shadows through the hills. He shuddered at the quiet. His world was chaos and noise, yet he'd spent the whole day in roaring silence.

Moving over to the fireplace, he placed more wood into the flames and watched the sparks fly up the chimney. Behind him, the Professor moaned and coughed.

"Dear God. My head's got a combustion engine doing overtime in there."

A smile flickered on Blair's face. It was the first glimmer of *his* Professor that he had seen since he had arrived. The smile widened into a grin. Shimmering images and razor-cut metaphors. He was looking forward to listening to his friend play with language again.

More dry coughing shook the Professor's large frame and he turned a baleful glare on his young ex-student.

"What are you doing here?"

"If you remember, you invited me in. You were the one who said I wouldn't make it back in time before nightfall." Blair shrugged his shoulders.

The Professor looked somewhat shamefaced, and gruffly tried to cover up. "Well. I see you've made yourself useful."

The fire was burning brightly in the hearth, sending soft, spinning arcs of light across the cabin. A brightly patterned cloth had been placed over the table and candles lit. Something smelled delicious. The Professor's stomach growled loudly in appreciation. How long had it been since he had eaten anything but TV dinners?

"I've made a kind of stew. I just used all the bits and pieces I could find. Should taste okay, though. Want to eat now, sir?"

At the brusque nod of assent from the Professor, Blair began to ladle out a large, steaming serve of stew onto a delicately patterned dinner plate. He placed it in front of the Professor who was sitting at the table, holding his head in his gnarled hands. The older man looked up, and grunted his thanks.

Placing his own plate on the table, Blair sat down and began to fork food into his mouth with elaborate care. He did not attempt to make any conversation. The only sound was the clink of cutlery against the plates, and the comforting crackle coming from the fire.

There was a cough. "I'm sorry."

Silence.

"I'm sorry. That was unforgivable behaviour on my part."

Silence.

"I take it, you are not accepting my apology then, young Sandburg?"

Blair's eyes twinkled with a familiar mischief. "You know what they say: a closed mouth gathers no feet."

The Professor burst out laughing. The sound rang in the room and Blair grinned with self satisfaction.

"Blair, the day you can keep your mouth closed for any length of time, is the day that I'll be looking for *two* silvery orbs in the night sky." He chuckled again.

"Professor!" Blair grinned and shook his head. "You've mistaken me for someone else, man. I'm REALLY quiet. Well, fairly quiet. Uhhh, would you believe quite quiet? Well, I have been quiet on occasions. First of June 1986. I distinctly remember being quiet on that day...for a moment or two, anyway."

Laughing loudly, the Professor reached across and put his large hand against the young man's cheek. "I've missed you, my boy. You make me laugh...and there hasn't been much of that lately."

Blair's smile made a gentle retreat, and his expression showed open concern at the professor's words. He placed his fork neatly on the plate and carefully framed his next words.

"Sir, we need to talk. *You* need to talk." The blue eyes were extraordinarily compassionate.

The Professor sighed, weighing each word before dealing it out. "Yes. I believe we do. And, son, there is no-one I trust more to share this matter with. No-one. But first, let's enjoy our meal and talk about old times. I haven't had company for so long, I feel as though I have lost the art of conversation."

Blair nodded his head in agreement. He could wait.

__________________________________________________________

Jim Ellison spun a pen through the fingers of one hand until it looked like a Catherine Wheel, turning over and over his knuckles. His eyes glazed as he lost himself in the motion of the pen.

Simon stood behind him, unnoticed. He watched his best detective, and shook his head. Jim needed to be distracted somehow. He was sweating over Sandburg being away up North...understandable really, considering the penchant the kid had for getting into trouble.

"Jim?" Simon placed his hand on Jim's shoulder and watched the flicker on his friend's face. The captain's deep, resonant voice echoed somewhere within Jim and he looked up with a smile on his face.

"Simon?" The Sentinel seemed surprised to see him.

"Simon? Now, he's the tall, dark, intelligent, good looking one, yeah?" Simon looked down at himself and began ticking off the attributes on his fingers. "Yes...yes...definitely...and of course. Yep..It's me all right." He chuckled.

Jim laughed up at his captain. "Well..tall and dark, anyway." He ducked as Simon took a mock swipe at him.

"Heard from Sandburg?" Simon watched Jim's face closely and was rewarded with the walls going up. The Sentinel was editing himself again.

"Nope. But the cabin doesn't have a phone. He should only be a couple of days, he said. If he's not back by Friday...I'll go get him."

"So what's the story with this guy he's gone to see?"

Jim hesitated. "Gideon Canfield. He was a Professor at Rainier University, years ago, when Blair first started. He and his wife took the kid under their wing. The Chief thought the world of both of them. The wife died a few years ago, I believe. Blair hasn't been able to contact the Professor, so he's gone up to the cabin to find out what is happening."

Simon commented wryly, "I've spent many a happy moment in my office wondering if my hands would fit around Sandburg's scrawny little neck. But you gotta give the kid credit, he knows how to be a friend."

"Yeah, he does." The Sentinel grinned, and gave silent thanks. "That he does."

The Captain grabbed the moment to pull Jim back into a working mode. He wanted him involved in a case that would keep his mind off Blair's Canadian Capers. It would be safer all round.

"Jim. I need your help on this one." Simon placed the case file in front of the detective, who dropped the pen he was holding and began to flick through it.

The Sentinel's brow furrowed and he withheld a sigh. "Simon, this isn't our case. It's a not even a Missing Person's at this stage. It's only been 8 hours for God's sake."

Simon interjected with a deliberately cajoling voice. "Jim. It's a favour. The old guy's close to eighty. Took off from a nursing home. It's Hugh Rees."

Jim lifted his eyes from the file, a look of understanding crossing his face. Hugh Rees was a legend in Cascade. He'd been a detective right up until retirement age. Even then he was sometimes called in as an unofficial adviser on some cases. The Department looked after their own.

"I'll get onto it right away, Simon. I'll go see the head of the retirement home, now."

Simon handed Jim his coat. "I appreciate it, Jim."

Jim waved away his comment, and started towards the door. Stopping, he turned around and called across to Simon, "Let me know if Sandburg gets in contact, will you?"

The captain nodded and his dark eyes sparkled with amusement. Who would have believed it? When Sandburg had moved into Jim's apartment, Simon would have bet his year's wage that it wouldn't last. Jim was set in his ways and approached things methodically. He was struggling with the Sentinel thing...but nobody would have known. He kept everything inside. Then along came Sandburg. Blair was vibrant, singing like an electric wire. He jumped in feet first and never thought about what the consequences would be. But despite his non-stop talking, his loud music and the mess he left around, he had a big heart. He genuinely cared about people. One Jim Ellison, in particular. Somewhere along the way, the Sentinel and the kid had forged a special kind of brotherhood. And although Simon would rather cut out his own tongue with a blunt knife than admit it, it did his heart good to see the two friends together. _____________________________________________________

Kneeling down in front of the fireplace, Blair placed more wood into the flames, his hair and face burnished by the light. He stretched his hands out to the heat. Professor Canfield watched him silently, his hand curled around a soothingly warm cup of coffee. The boy had changed so little since he had first met him at Rainier about thirteen years ago. Such a child then..all eyes. But he took in everything with such open joy that the Professor knew he would sign his name on the field of Anthropology one day.

Every day had been an adventure to Blair..all was new. He was a spring of unsuspected inward grace. Deborah had noticed it first. "That boy warms the spirit and puts wings on idiosyncrasy," she said. "He's special." She loved Blair's easiness with her, and the way he could make her feel child-happy.

Oh, he missed Deborah. He missed her so much. The words that he had been denying for six months began to form inside the Professor's head. He arranged them into a sentence that was, when it surfaced, beautifully crafted and clearly defined.

"My mind is my executioner." The words rasped into the silence.

Blair spun on his heels, overbalanced and ended up in a tangle on the floor, the sentence tumbling over him like a ruined alphabet.

"Sir?"

It was time. The Professor took a deep breath and released it. "I have Alzheimer's Disease, Blair."

The younger man's face apologised for his stumble of words even before they had left his mouth. "God...I...how do you....Professor?"

Gideon Canfield smiled sympathetically at his protege and gestured to the armchair. "Come sit, boy. I need to talk. It's long past time."

The Professor put the coffee cup down on the hearth and stared into the flames.

"I noticed things going wrong about a year and a half ago. Stupid things like not being able to remember where I put the car keys, or buying milk when I already had two cartons in the fridge." He ran his hands through his hair, smiled across to Blair and then continued his story.

"I'd been doing some community lecturing, and I've always used key words to help prompt me...suddenly I found myself looking at them and just drying up. Frustrating...most frustrating. I started forgetting people's names and I knew something was wrong. I went to the doctor's. He sent me to a specialist and they gave me the tentative diagnosis of Alzheimer's. Went back three months later and it was confirmed. Brain scans showed a deterioration."

Blair was looking at his mentor with shock clearly scribed across his face. He dropped his head and wound his hands together, not knowing what to say.

"At first it was a relief. At least I knew why I was losing it. But then I got angry. There's still so much I want to do. I wanted to travel. I'm writing a book about Deborah's family...only half way through that. The days became grey, my boy. And I'm ashamed to say it, but there is always self pity and grief nibbling about like earnest mice at the corner of my drunkenness."

Blair was as taut as a line. Tiny tremors flickered across his face as he strained to catch every nuance, every feeling, that the Professor was describing.

"But you know what the funniest thing is, young Blair? I was lost before I was lost. When Deborah died, everything changed. Oh, I trundled on as I was expected to. But I misplaced the real me. And now....now the irony...cruel as it may be...I'm losing her all over again. And that is the killing thing, lad. All my fragile, beautifully decorated memories of her are being knocked one by one from their shelf. Fragments. So, my boy, that is why you have found your old Professor wallowing in corporeal gloom. Not a pretty picture is it?"

Tasting pain in his throat, Blair coughed. When he spoke, his voice was gentle and full of compassion. "Professor, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here on a mission...but I felt something was wrong. I wanted to help. I'm sorry, but I'm glad I'm here, though."

"You have helped, boy. Just by being here. I needed a wake up call. Saying these things aloud has made it more real. All those times over the years that I lectured to you to reach out and grab life with both hands. Now it's my turn. I have to get back on the road again. Start using the time I have left instead of wasting it. Deborah would be horrified to see me in this state. Come, I fished out this box of photographs last week. Let's find some for you to take with you."

The two men sat companionably looking at the memories, laughing over old times. Blair picked out a photograph of himself and the Professor. He remembered the day it had been taken. Deborah had snapped them jousting with barbecue tools. The Professor cut a dashing figure, with one hand behind his back, right leg extended forward and the tongs flashing in the sunlight.

The second photograph that Blair selected was of himself and Deborah. He remembered that occasion, too. He had been sitting cross-legged on the couch, reading. The Professor had set himself up to take the shot, while Deborah had crept up behind the young man and flung her arms around him. The photograph captured Blair looking up, a brilliant grin lighting his face, smiling at the lovely, older woman.

The Professor sat quietly, fingering the photographs. Blair looked across at him, and realised that his friend had embarked on the loneliest of journeys. By the time the Professor reached his destination, he would not recognise where he was, or even be able to recall what was seen along the way. By road's end, he would not be able to comprehend that he had lost so much.

Blair grimaced slightly and shifted in his seat. He picked up another photograph of Deborah smiling into the camera. He rubbed his forefinger gently across the photograph. Here *he* was, holding memories locked onto paper by a chemical process. And there was the Professor, whose own memories were gradually fading, killed by another chemical process that no one completely understood. It was ironic...and it hurt.

_________________________________________________________

The night seemed endless, like a black ribbon that kept unwinding. Blair tossed and turned on the couch, trying to find some comfort that would send him to sleep but his mind raced, swirling with the chaotic detail of the day. In the rose-dark silence, gentle tongues repeated the word over and over. Alzheimer's. And it became a poor chorus until eventually he sang it back to a dream's border...and slept.

As dawn forced its way through grey clouds, a familiar nightmare prowled on velvet-soft feet towards Gideon Canfield. He stood waist deep in a swirling ocean. His feet were caught in the sand and he watched the night unfurling on the moon-infested water. The waves rose higher and lapped against his chin. He stood, motionless, his eyes seeking something on the horizon. Then he began to struggle. He fought hard and his hand stretched and reached up. He screamed into the silence and was ripped awake, still rooted in his dream of death.

Gasping, he willed himself breathe rhythmically until his heart stopped pounding. He lay exhausted. There was no point in staying in bed. Sleep would not return now. He hauled his body from the bed and pulled on a robe. Walking out into the living room, he moved to put more logs on the fire. He watched strands of firelight flutter to the floor, lying haphazardly across one another and turned to look at the light play across Blair.

"I don't want to do this to you, my boy. I don't want you to see it. Hell, *I* don't want to see it!"

Blair stirred and nestled further into the blankets. The professor sat on the arm of the sofa and waited as the little fidget-wheels of time clicked their way towards daylight.

________________________________________________________

It had started to snow again. Blair hung up the telephone and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

"Jim'll pick me up when I get in. He's used to me coming and going at weird hours. Man, it's cold. Want to get a coffee while we wait?"

The professor nodded in agreement and the two men crossed the road to the small, cosy cafe nestled between the grocery store and the feed store.

They found a table that faced the window. After ordering coffee, they sat in silence watching the swirl of snow outside.

"Professor?"

The older man turned at the soft question.

"I'll be fine. I've got a lot to get done, young Blair."

Blair hesitated then spoke the words that needed to be said. "The poem? The Auden poem? I read it back at the cabin........" His voice trailed off and he began to fiddle with the sugar bowl.

The professor smiled. Before he could answer, a bustling waitress deposited two steaming cups of coffee front of them.

"There ya go, boys. That should warm you all the way down to your toes!" As she walked away, she wondered if the beautiful, young man was the professor's son. Funny, he'd not mentioned family. But they looked close. She peeked back over her shoulder to see the kid reach across and put his hand on the professor's arm. 'Family,' she thought with a self satisfied smile. Years of watching people...she was rarely wrong. Humming to herself, she pushed her gray fringe out of her eyes and began to fill the sugar bowls.

"I promise you, Blair. I give you my word. I shall do nothing. I can't deny that I have thought about it. When I found out about this bloody Alzheimer's, it seemed to be the last straw. And Auden probably said it better than most. But despite my swimming around in the Slough of Despond, there are things I want to do. And now is the time."

Blair canted his head and asked, "So... no putting away the stars?"

"No...the stars are safe for the moment." The professor echoed the young man's smile, feeling a twinge that the boy was becoming an interpreter to grief that he could never understand.

"What *are* you going to do, sir?" Blair peered over the rim of his coffee cup, curiosity alive in his eyes.

Professor Canfield took a deep breath. "I'm going to Israel. Jerusalem has been flickering in my dreams for years now. Deborah never wanted to go. I asked her once why she didn't and she said 'Why travel? I'm already here.' And while she was alive, I guess I felt that, too."

"Wow, Israel. I'd love to go there, man. Just to see the history." Enthusiasm flared in the young anthropologist and he put his cup down, sloshing coffee onto the table.

"Awww shit!" He grabbed a handful of napkins and blotted up the mess as the professor chuckled loudly and continued while Blair was distracted.

"At my last appointment with the Specialist, my IQ was 110 which is fairly normal. In my prime it was 170. The doctor said I had a small hole in the tank. But I have a full tank, and it will take a lot longer to empty out. So....I'm through with my wallowing. I'm off to visit the Holy Land while I can."

Blair stood, with a handful of sopping napkins. "When? When are you going?"

"Oh...some months yet. I need to get organised."

The young man tossed the wad of napkins into a bin that was ten feet away. He raised his arms in the air. "Yesssss!!! And the crowd chants...Sandburg...Sandburg.." He grinned at his mentor and then became suddenly serious.

"So I can visit again? That's okay isn't it?" A little edge of uncertainty fringed his words.

"You have to ask? You bring Deborah to me. All the times that we shared, you bring it back. You are family, Blair. There's no one else. I'm proud to call you son. Deborah did, too."

Before Blair could answer, the waitress called across the room.

"There's the bus, fellas."

The moment was lost in a flurry of bill paying, and gathering of belongings.

The two men stood outside as the bus driver loaded Blair's backpack into the luggage compartment under the bus.

"Okay....we're away." The driver gestured to Blair and climbed aboard.

Blair opened his mouth to say something but found himself enveloped in a brief, fierce hug. The professor pulled back.

"Go." He gave Blair a little push towards the door.

Taking an empty seat at the back of the bus, Blair twisted around as the bus jolted and began to move.

The professor raised his hand. "Thank you," he mouthed. Blair raised his hand in reply and watched as the road unravelled into the distance. He continued watching until the bus turned off onto the main highway.

_________________________________________________________________

The air in the truck was heavily warm. In the light of the oncoming traffic, Jim could see that Blair was wound tight, pulsing without movement, staring, unseeing, into the splintered darkness.

"You okay, Chief?"

Blair twisted in his seat and balanced a smile upon his face. "Yeah, man. I'm just beat. Feel like I could sleep for a week."

"You couldn't stay still that long, Sandburg. It would be a designated miracle."

Tired eyes looked across at the Sentinel. "Get ready to say your Hallelujahs, Jim."

Jim's long fingers beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel, keeping time with the swish of the wipers. Snow had begun to fall again.

"So....."

Blair turned to face him. "So...?"

Deciding to leap right in, Jim kept his eyes on the road and blurted out the question that had been nagging at him since he had picked Blair up from the bus station.

"So...you worked things out with the Professor?"

"Sort of.."

"You sort of did? Or you sort of didn't?"

"Did. I think. Jim, he's got Alzheimer's Disease. It's so fucking unfair. He's the sharpest person I know...and he knows...and he can see it happening...and no one can do anything...and it sucks, man. It's just like so... cruel." The tumble of words came to an abrupt end.

"Blair. I'm sorry. God, I don't know what to say."

"Yeah, there's a lot of that goin' around." He sighed and leaned his head against the side window, closing his eyes.

"I'm tired."

"Then sleep, Chief. I'll wake you when we get home."

There was another small sigh, and then silence.

Jim drove on into the night listening to the quiet percussion of his friend's breathing. He thought back to when his own senses had gone haywire. Every pore seemed to be open to the action swirling around him, every vibration, every stirring. He'd felt so fragmented. He empathised with the professor. It was an exquisite and refined torture. To wait for your memory to become all refracting light, bouncing off the walls of your mind.

The Sentinel shuddered.

___________________________________________________________________

Jim glanced up from the report he was scanning, to see Blair chatting animatedly to Simon. He shook his head fondly. It was one of Blair's most admirable qualities. No matter what trouble was thrown his way, he dealt with it, and got on with life.

The young man strode purposefully towards him, with the usual bounce in his step.

"You didn't wake me this morning!" Blair's voice was only half-hearted in his accusation. His smile was wide.

Jim leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms wide, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. He cast a wicked look up at his friend.

"I didn't have a bomb handy. You were so far gone, that's what it would have taken. I mean, I breakfasted to the rousing sounds of the Blair Nasal Band. You've got a snore on you, kid!"

"I DON'T snore. I may...snuffle...occasionally, but I definitely do not snore." The voice was indignant. The brown curls flew back and forth in unison with the denying shake of the head.

"Ahhhhhhhh." Jim steepled his fingers, and then struck. "Man! I'll need to call the SWAT team. If it ain't you....then....we have a rogue chainsaw loose in the loft! This could be the lead we've been chasing, Sandburg. Yep." Jim began to thumb through a booklet. "Here we are. Chainsaw Chorus...it's a one-seven-three offence."

Blair picked up a balled up piece of paper from the waste paper basket and tossed it at his friend. Jim's big hand closed around the missile with ease, and he aimed it back at Blair who twisted his body out of the way before raising his arms in triumph. Behind him, Simon stood, with a barely concealed smile on his face, and the ball of paper in his hand. He tapped Blair's shoulder.

"Simon! Ah...we...were...." Blair spun around to face Jim with a cheeky grin on his face. "Jim, what *was* that we were doing again?"

Jim raised one eyebrow at Simon. "We were discussing the flight patterns of incoming projectiles, sir."

The captain rolled his eyes. He smiled at Blair. "Welcome back, Sandburg. It's been quieter around here without you. But not as interesting...not nearly as interesting."

Blair took the rolled up paper from Simon and dropped it back into the bin. "Thanks, sir. I think."

"You here to work, Blair?"

"Ahhh, actually I'm not, Simon. I've just been down to the university to pick up notes on what I missed while I was away. I've actually got a few errands I need to run this afternoon. Pretty important."

Simon nodded. "Pity. We could use a fresh point of view on the case Jim is working on. But tomorrow will be fine."

"Thanks. Jim? I'll catch you tonight. I'll cook, okay?"

"Oh great! The Return of the Mung Bean Casserole. Yum." The Sentinel grimaced.

Blair shook his head. "Jim. Jim. Jim. For you, just for tonight, we'll have super greasy hamburgers."

Jim clutched at his chest. "Be still my heart! Hamburgers? I'll be there!"

"You, my friend, are a lost cause!" Blair poked a finger into the Sentinel's chest and then walked away, still shaking his head. He turned at the door and waved.

Jim raised his hand in return and then glanced at Simon.

"What do *you* think?"

Simon paused for a moment and then answered thoughtfully. "I think that he is doing a damn good job. He's covering up..but it's a damnably fine job."

___________________________________________________________

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, Blair placed the boxes squarely on the brown paper and began to wrap them with care. Each corner was folded neatly in. He was unstinting with the tape. All open edges were securely taped down. When satisfied, he took a black marker, flipped it over and wrote his own name and address on the back. With a final pat, he picked it up and walked to his bedroom. He placed it in his backpack. Tomorrow he would post it.

Treading softly, he moved out to the balcony. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his pullover and leaned out to stare at the lowering sky. Watching the shadows fall and gather into darkness, he tried to feel the minute corrugations of time ticking by. Time. What a sarcastic medium, running silvery through your fingers, like sand.

Chilled to the bone, he watched the moon slit the black horizon and creep forth, a slow, malevolent circle. Turning, he stepped back into the comforting warmth of the loft. Without looking out at the night again, he began to prepare dinner. _______________________________________________________________

As Jim arrived at the loft door and extended his senses, he heard the gentle tapping of Blair's fingers flying across the keys of his computer. The Sentinel grinned when his nose began to twitch at the smell of the promised hamburgers. He opened the door and threw his keys onto the table.

"Chief?"

Blair looked up from the computer, a slightly startled look upon his face. He took off his glasses and stood up, stretching.

"Man, where did the time go? Dinner's ready...smell the grease?" Blair laughed up at Jim who was sniffing appreciatively.

"Yeah...not a mung bean in sight, or smell, for that matter. I give thanks for small mercies...lead on MacSandburg....let's see what kind of burger maker you are."

During the meal, Jim chatted lightly, bringing Blair up to date with the cases and the general scandal and gossip of a normal week at the department. He wondered whether to broach the topic of the Professor. Blair hadn't said anything else about it since his outburst in the car last night. Deciding to let the conversation take its own course, Jim leaned back in his chair and smacked his lips.

"Man. That was one fine meal, Chief."

Blair swallowed his mouthful of salad and smiled. "You're easily pleased, Jim. Hamburgers!"

"Hamburgers are...well...part of a cop's staple diet, kid. Life falls apart if you take out the staples!"

"That's deep, Jim. The Hamburger Philosophy. Perhaps you could run a class at the University." Blair chuckled.

"So..you get done what you wanted to today?" The question was a study in careful phrasing and Jim knew it.

Understanding what his friend was trying to say, Blair smiled. "It's okay you know, man. You can talk about it."

Jim looked a little shamefaced. "Sorry. I wasn't sure if you wanted to talk or not," he mumbled.

"It's fine, man. There's absolutely nothing I can do about it except be there to support him when he needs it. Don't get me wrong, it hurts like hell, though. I did some research about Alzheimer's on the net this afternoon. Apparently it attacks your short term memory first. Through the brain's hippoc...hippocampus system that regulates the memories that don't have any logical connections like a face and a name, or the car keys and the dining room table. The Professor's been there already. The next step is the old memories and it's not just faces and names, it's behaviour and knowing how to survive. He's starting to lose Deborah so I guess that is where he is at the moment."

"How do you think he is dealing with it, Chief?" Jim began to clear the table, hoping that the kid would continue to talk.

"I don't know. He's been drinking big time. And he never used to drink. The cabin was filthy. And he was angry at me for coming at first. But after a while he seemed to calm down. I think he is just working his way through the stages. He's angry that he's losing Deborah for the second time and he's scared because he knows what is going to happen. I just feel like so shitty. I want to help and I can't. No one can." He twisted his fingers together in attempt to stop them underlining his frustration.

"What about medication...or advancements in treatment? They seem to discover new things every day." Jim began to wash the dishes, all the time monitoring his young guide's heartbeat. The steady thump was increasing in pace as Blair spoke.

Blair ran his fingers through his hair, rumpling it wildly, obviously giving up on keep his hands still.

"There's a new drug out called Donepezil. Apparently it has less side effects than some of the others that are around. But the bottom line is that they only slow down the process. It doesn't stop it, man. So...the Professor gets to look forward to being aware of his own mind trickling away. Fucking unfair!"

Both hands pounded on the table and Blair slid his chair backward and stood up. Jim turned to face his friend, watching the raw anger, and waited.

"I feel like I'm melting into the foreground." Blair laughed bitterly. "Everything I am, everything I do, points to what he is losing."

He walked to the balcony windows and stood with one forearm on the glass, his head resting against it. Jim moved to follow him. He stretched out a hand to touch Blair's shoulder.

"Don't. Just don't."

And it broke the Sentinel's heart to stand and watch.

__________________________________________________________________

The Rose Of Sharon Home For the Aged was a low, graceful building, sprawling across several acres of rolling lawn.

In the streaky, wintry sun, it was latticed with light and looked almost homely. Roses grew over the entrance to the administration building and along the road leading to the building.

Blair tripped on the crumbled edge of the road and flailed his arms like a windmill, trying to regain his balance.

A big hand closed around his upper arm and steadied him. "Gotcha."

"Thanks, man." Blair cleared his throat nervously. "Geez, I got a bad feeling about this."

"I'll do the talking, Chief. I've already spoken to the Administrative Director a couple of times. It's been over five days now. They want action. But looking for an old guy out on the streets is a needle in the haystack job."

"You reckon he's okay, Jim? Mr Rees?"

"Dunno, Chief. Hope so. He was a great cop. Everyone looked up to him. We knew he was losing it a couple of years back. No family...so they held a benefit to raise money to get him a place here. He doesn't remember anyone anymore." The Sentinel paused. "You want I should go in alone?"

Blair stopped on the first step up to the administration building. He shook his head with determination. "No. I'll come. I need to see for myself. Need to know." He smiled at Jim, acknowledging his concern.

The two men walked into the building, Jim leading the way to the Director's office.

Leandra Agnostino was a severe looking woman. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her horn rimmed glasses were too heavy for her small face. She ruled the staff of the nursing home with a rod of iron, but was kindness itself with the patients.

She sized up her visitors with grave eyes. The older one, the detective, was doing everything in his power to find old Hugh, and she liked him a great deal. The young one was nervous. But his blue eyes were kind and she sensed that he was a gentle soul.

"So, Detective Ellison, I take it that there have been no developments?" Her voice was lilting and musical.

"I'm sorry, Ms Agnostino, I'm afraid not. I've come to talk to some of the staff in case he has mentioned something at one time that could be of assistance. It's a long shot...but at this stage, we'll try anything." He smiled apologetically and she returned his smile warmly.

"Would you like to follow me to the wards? You may speak to the nurses on duty. That will be a start for you." Her capable looking hands picked up a heavy circle of keys and she beckoned the two men to follow her.

They walked through a courtyard surrounded with high walls and then entered the main wards through a locked door.

Ms Agnostino whispered, "It's for their own good. It's dangerous for them to be wandering. I have no idea how Hugh slipped out. A mix up. It's never happened before."

The activity room was ringing with the sound of a Gilbert and Sullivan song. Old people sat around a table working on a craft project being led by a young woman with incredible patience.

"It's a bit like a daycare, really. The difference, of course, is the developmental milestones here are almost mirror-opposites to that of children. There's no growth." The Director walked to the table and spoke quietly to the young woman who was showing an elderly woman how to paint a clay pot.

The two women moved across the room to where Jim and Blair were standing.

"Jane, this is Detective Ellison and Mr Sandburg. Jane is our diversional therapist here. She creates programs to keep our patients busy. Detective Ellison, if you would like to have a chat to Jane while she is keeping an eye on the activity work, that would be fine. I'll leave you to it."

Jane and Jim began to discuss Hugh Rees as they walked back to the activity table. Blair stood and watched for a while and then walked across the hall to a television room.

Patients sat in armchairs facing the television. Blair looked at the circle of empty eyes staring dimly at the screen. He realised, that here, words took days to cross the mind's soft sands. Sometimes they would never reach the tongue. Those eyes, vacant like houses due for demolition....compliant, soft sculptures.

He walked with gentle, careful tread from the room and leaned against the wall in the corridor, eyes closed.

A hand grasped his arm and shook it urgently. Blair opened his eyes to see a bird-like little woman standing in front of him. She clutched at his shirt and whispered conspiratorially, "You're from North of Capricorn. You've come."

The woman exuded an almost overpowering odour of stale urine. Blair placed his hand over hers and patted it.

She tilted her head and peered up at him. "I was a violinist in my day," she said, and to demonstrate, she cradled an invisible violin under her jaw, and tapped her foot in the shadow of her sawing arm. The music bled out from under her jaw like belief in imagination. "Beautiful Dreamer, awake unto me." Her voice was wavery, but true.

Blair spoke around the lump in his throat. "You must have played beautifully."

She giggled and then put one arthritic finger to her lips. "Shhhh. Are you Philip? You look like Phillip. Do you remember when we made that treehouse, Philip? The big one in the mulberry tree?"

A woman in a crisp, blue uniform came bustling along the corridor.

"Mrs Sweetman. There you are. It's time for our walk in the courtyard. You promised me that you would come with us today." The uniformed woman gently moved the old lady along the corridor towards the locked door that led to the courtyard.

The little woman turned and waved at Blair. "Save me some mulberries, Philly."

Blair waved in return and then bent over, his hands on his knees, his head hanging low as if he were out of breath. He heard familiar footsteps, but he didn't raise his head.

"Chief?" Jim's arm came to rest across his friend's shoulders and he leaned over trying to see Blair's face.

"Man....God, I gotta get outa here, Jim. I gotta get out now!" His hands sketched anxiety in the air.

"Whoa, kiddo. Calm down. I'm done. We can go. What happened?"

"Nothing. Can we just go? Can we just go NOW?"

___________________________________________________________

Blair huddled miserably in the passenger seat, watching the streets slip by, seeing only the faces of the people at the Home .

Jim glanced at the young man surreptitiously and decided to bide his time.

Finally, Blair spoke. "That sucked. That sucked so much."

"You mean the Home, Chief?" Jim was being deliberately vague. He wanted his partner to talk about what he had seen.

"No." The voice was less agitated, a little more fragile. "Not the home. The fact that the people...the people are disappearing from themselves. Shit, I can't even imagine that happening to the Professor. It seems surreal, man."

Jim glanced across at Blair and then pulled over to the side of the road. He turned off the engine, unfastened his seatbelt and faced his friend. Blair's expression was warring between confusion and sadness.

"Chief. If I had the words to help, I would. The Professor phoned me a couple of days after you had been there. He was worried about *you*."

"Me? Why me?" Blair's hands echoed his questions with upturned palms.

"Because he knows you, Chief." Jim's smile was gentle. "He knows how you take things to heart. We talked for over an hour. I asked him about the future...and he said that it won't be a problem for him because he won't remember."

"But that's..."

"Blair. Just listen. Gideon is prepared. He knows others are on that journey. He told me that he knows where the road ahead leads...but the thing is how you walk that road." Jim paused for a moment and his expression softened. "Blair?"

Blair was looking out the window. He did not turn to face Jim. Sentinel-soft, he echoed the words wistfully. "How you walk the road."

___________________________________________________________

Jim followed Simon's gaze to Blair, who was perched on the detective's desk, idly swinging his legs, and reading a report on Hugh Rees.

"You think maybe he should stay behind on this one?" Simon asked, concern plain in his voice.

Jim sighed. "Like we have half a chance! You *know* what he's like. He's gonna want to come, no matter what!"

"Yeah. That's about the size of it. Well...give him the option anyway. And get going." Simon gestured to Blair and then walked off to his office, shaking his head.

Jim paused only for a second, before heading off across the room to his desk.

"Hey, Chief."

Blair looked up from the report, and took off his glasses. "So...we away, then?"

Jim fiddled with some paperwork and kept his head down as framed the question in his mind.

"I think I should go on this one alone, Chief. It's not life threatening or anything. Bet you've got a ton of work to mark."

Blair placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned across to his friend. "I'll give you a hint, Jim. Starts with 'no' and ends with 'way'."

Jim raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay. I was pretty sure that would be your answer...but had to try." He grinned at Blair. "Let's go."

On the way to the downtown Soup Kitchen, Jim filled Blair in on the information that Simon had given him. Someone from the Soup Kitchen had rung the department because an old guy that had been turning up for over a week matched the description of Hugh Rees.

"Poor old guy. He must be feeling so lost." There was a world of understanding in Blair's words.

"The woman who rang said he keeps to himself. He doesn't turn up every day, though." Jim's long fingers beat out an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel as the car in front slowed down and then stopped without indicating.

"Is it him? Or do they just think it is?" Blair pointed to a break in the traffic as he spoke, and Jim manoeuvred into the space, lifting his hand in acknowledgment to the driver who had let him in.

"Won't know till we get there, Chief. I hope it is him. We're at a dead end if it's not."

The truck pulled up at the front of the Soup Kitchen. It was a shabby building, scraped and barren. The welcome sign over the entrance swung cheerfully and defiantly in the chafing breeze.

Jim pulled the photograph of Hugh Rees from inside his jacket and glanced across at his friend. "You okay?"

Blair's face lit with a smile of gratitude and understanding. "Yeah, man. Let's go."

The bite of the winter air gave way to an enveloping warmth as they entered the building. The huge room was flooded with weak sunlight streaming in through enormous windows. The food smelled delicious and the clatter of cutlery and chatter was comforting.

Jim headed towards one of the people who was serving the food while Blair waited by the door, watching.

The Sentinel was speaking to a slim woman with cropped, red-tinged curls who studied the photograph and then pointed to a table in the far corner. Blair followed her gaze and saw a young man whispering something to a much older man.

Before Jim could move, the old man was sprinting with surprising speed out the side entrance. Gesturing to Blair, Jim zigzagged through the maze of tables and confronted the young man who had risen from his seat, ready to make his escape. Jim flashed his badge.

"Hey, man. I didn't do nothing. Neither did Old Bill. He needs someone to look out for him. You don't need to be chasing an old guy like that. He's done nothing to nobody." Sincerity rang in the boy's voice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim could see Blair heading out in the same direction as Hugh had gone. He turned back to the young man.

"Why is he running? The old guy?"

"I told him you were showing his photo. He just took off. I don't know if he is all right in the head. Seems to forget who I am every day. But he's a nice old fella. He doesn't deserve to be hounded by you guys, no matter what." The young man's chin tip tilted upward, a small sign of bravery against the intimidating sight of the tall detective frowning down at him.

One large finger came crashing down onto the table and tapped in time with each syllable that the detective spoke. "I...will...see...you...later." He nodded abruptly at the young man and turned to follow Blair.

Once out in the street, Blair had kept the bobbing grey head in sight, but didn't approach. The old man was remarkably fit for his age and Blair had to walk double time to keep up with him. He followed him down alleys, across streets and then into the park. He watched as Hugh walked to the middle of a bridge that stretched across the pond. The old man clasped an ornamental lamppost and clung to it as if it were a lifeline.

Blair sat on a bench and tucked his hands under his armpits, waiting patiently for Jim to appear.

Outside the Soup Kitchen, the Sentinel closed his eyes and unleashed his sense of hearing to its fullest power. He let it drift through the sounds of the street, peeling each one away until only the signature of Blair's heartbeat remained. He began to jog towards the well known rhythm.

As he turned into the street that lead to the park, Jim could see Blair, a tiny figure on a bench. He scanned the park further and saw Hugh Rees on the bridge. Increasing his stride, he pounded across the grass towards Blair.

"He's on the bridge." Blair nodded towards the old man who was rocking in the late light, a ghost the sun did not shine through.

Jim bent over, breathing hard, and then caught Blair's gaze. "How you want to do this, Chief?"

"Me? Man, I don't know. He's terrified."

Jim put his hand on Blair's shoulder. "I'll go first. You stay here, but be ready to move. Okay?"

The Sentinel moved slowly towards the bridge and then stopped. The old man had seen him and was climbing up onto the railing, an animal whine of unequivocal desperation twisting from his mouth.

"You. You stay away." Spittle flecked his lips as he screamed at Jim.

Jim put his hands up in the air. "It's okay. I'm not coming any closer. I'm not going to hurt you."

He heard Blair moving up behind him and felt the whisper of displaced air as his friend slipped past him and onto the bridge.

Hugh screamed again. "He's coming to get me!"

Blair raised a hand, more to Jim than to the old man, and continued to step across the bridge with an air of quiet confidence. He began talking to the old man in a soft, persuasive voice.

Jim let his senses drift until he could hear Blair clearly.

"Hugh. It's okay. It's me, David. You remember me, don't you? I'm your brother." His voice was beguiling the man on the bridge.

"David? Is that really you?"

"Yeah, man. It's me. Want to come down from there so that we can talk? Hugh? How about you come down now?" Blair stretched one hand out to the man who tentatively let go of the lamppost and reached forward to take the young man's hand.

Hugh slid down the railing and fell against Blair who wrapped his arms around him and sat down. His dark curls were a vivid contrast to the old man's grey hair as he leaned close to hear what Hugh was saying.

"They are coming for me. They are coming to get me, David." The quavering voice gave way to great hiccuping sobs.

Blair gathered him closer and murmured through his sorrow. "It's okay Hugh. I won't let them hurt you. Your big brother won't let them hurt you. Shhhhh. Shush now." And they rocked gently back and forth.

Jim stepped quietly towards the two huddled figures. Blair looked up, eyes bright with unshed tears. His voice was gentle. "No, man. Wait awhile, okay? He just needs to feel safe for a bit."

And they stayed there, a temporary grace, as shadows lengthened , bruising the soft afternoon light.

___________________________________________________________________

"Chief?"

Jim opened the door to the balcony and stepped out.

"It's freezing out here, kid. Whatcha doing?"

Blair turned towards his friend and then nodded back to the skyline.

"Just watching the moon come out. Full moon tonight, man."

Jim hesitated for a second. "Hugh Rees has been given the all clear. Apparently he was staying in an abandoned building with that young guy. It's lucky that he had someone to look out for him. Want to go visit him, Chief?"

"Yeah, I would. Thanks, Jim." Blair held out a card. "Got this from the Professor today." He pulled the sleeves of his jumper down over his fingers and turned back to the railing.

Jim smiled at the belated birthday card. Opening it with care, he read:

My Dear Boy, A belated birthday card from your old Professor. Thank you for waking me up. Oh the time I was wasting. Now I'm hoarding my hours. They're precious. Although we are travelling separately beyond the sometime river into the future, never doubt that I am not with you. With love Gideon

The Sentinel swallowed against the lump in his throat. "He's an amazing old guy, Blair. You're lucky to have him. In fact, that's two amazing old guys that you know. Hugh Rees...he's great too."

A slight breeze ruffled the dark curls as Blair turned towards the Sentinel. "Ahhhh. That's *three* great old guys, counting you!" His smile seesawed between mischievous and vulnerable.

Jim laughed. "Old? Take that back!" He reached across, putting his arm across his friend's back, pulling him close to his side. His voice dropped into seriousness. "Thanks, Chief."

Leaning on the railing, they watched as a placid moon moved across the sky into the cradle of the night. Walking back into the loft, they closed the door against the cold and the darkness.

______________________________________________________

Slow coils of cloud arched overhead. There would be more snow tonight. He sighed and indulged himself, momentarily, with a little wish for a breath of warm, summer breeze.

He shook the snow from his coat and took off his boots before walking inside. Standing in the doorway, he took in the pristine interior of the cabin; everything in its place, a fire burning low in the hearth. He smiled at the ripple of satisfaction, the appreciation of small things, that pleased him these days. "Thank you, young Sandburg," he said aloud into the silence of the room.

Putting the parcel on the kitchen sink, he moved to the fireplace and began to rekindle the fire, letting an asterisk of twigs catch alight, before adding the larger wood. He spread his large hands before the flames and watched the edges of his fingers become almost translucent in the light.

He fetched the parcel from the kitchen and returned to his big, battered armchair, pulling it nearer the fire and stretching his stockinged feet towards the warmth.

"Ahhhhhh..." He wriggled his toes and felt the heat creeping into his bones.

Peeling back the tape on the parcel, he discarded the brown paper wrapping, only to find two equally well wrapped parcels inside. Tackling the smaller one, he tucked his finger under one end and broke the tape. Out slid a wooden box, simply made and beautiful in its proportions. It had been polished to a glossy finish. The lid was carved, inexpertly, but that made it all the more touching. The Professor ran his fingers across the jagged letters that spelled out his wife's name and felt the golden undertow that pulled at him when he thought of her.

The clasp that held the box closed was small, and he fumbled with it for a minute before it sprang open.

There was no note, no message. None was needed. On top of a little pile of memories sat a tape. Curious, the Professor put the box down on the hearth and took the tape into the kitchen. Slipping it into his ancient recorder, he pressed the button. There was a hissing sound and then the rich voice of Van Morrison filled the cabin. Deborah's favourite song...'Have I Told You Lately'.

With his hands flat on the bench, he closed his eyes and lost himself in the music. Deborah would always pull him up to dance to this. He could see the pleasure shining in her eyes as she looked up at him and sang. She never rested her head on his shoulder during this song. She always looked him right in the eyes and sang the words just for him.

Have I told you lately that I love you Have I told you there's no one above you Fill my heart with gladness Take away my sadness Ease my troubles, that's what you do.

The music stopped and he opened his eyes. The tape wound slowly on, and then the song began again.

Moving slowly back to his chair, the Professor hummed along to the tape, a gentle smile on his face. He knew what Blair was trying to do and he wanted to see what else was in the box.

The next thing he retrieved was a silk scarf and he chuckled outright at this. Deborah had loved silk painting. She always wore her own stylish hand-painted scarves when they went out. This one was her favourite. She had made it for Blair and used it to wrap his birthday present. Delicate shades of blue breathed into each other. He could quite clearly picture her on the day she had finished it. She had been so delighted at how it had turned out. Said that it matched Blair's eyes. She had made the scarf dance in the air as she twirled it around. Then she had tossed it over his head and captured him. The soft silk was a rope that bound them together. He could feel it gliding against his skin. And then she kissed him, as soft as the silk that tied him. He fingered his lips, almost feeling her gentle touch.

Shaking himself, he looked once again into the box that was giving him Deborah back. His fingers closed around a bottle of essential oil...rose oil. She had always worn rose oil. If she walked through a room, her gentle scent would linger behind. He opened the bottle and tipped it up on his finger to get a little oil. He dotted it on his collar and closed his eyes, remembering.

Two things remained in the box. The first one was a small packet of Hershey's Kisses. The Professor burst out laughing. It was Deborah's weakness. He always teased her that she tasted of chocolate kisses.

A photograph lay in the bottom of the box. The Professor reached in and gently lifted it out. It was Deborah and himself. Blair had taken this one and it had captured the essence of the couple, beautifully. Deborah had both arms draped around his neck. She was saying something to him and his head was thrown back in laughter.

He held the photograph to his chest and allowed tears to flow down his face, only for a moment, before dashing them away with his hand.

"Bless you, my boy." His voice sounded ragged and he hiccuped a little laugh. He replaced all the gifts into the box and once again ran his fingers across her name carved in the lid.

Lifting the larger parcel onto his lap, he quickly dispensed with the tape and pulled a rectangular box from the wrapping.

A grin lit his face. "You cheeky, young pup. Subtlety was never your strongest suit, Blair."

It was a jigsaw puzzle of a stylised moon, intricate and beautiful.

The Professor moved to the table and tipped the contents of the box out. With a quiet heart, he began to piece the puzzle together.

Finis