Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  Axe chambered a fresh round, but she did not fire, for she too was now staring at the man’s chest—at the blood-smoothed arrow sticking out of his body. The German’s eyes rolled toward the back of his head and he fell forward.

  The other soldiers called out. Axe looked up. One sprinted toward the door, trying to aim, his rifle jerking with the movement. He fired and missed. Axe fired and missed.

  Ken did not. His arrow sped from the dark to rip through artery, tendon and flesh, lodging in the soldier’s throat. He fell in a splay of limbs and there he choked on his own blood.

  The last three soldiers realized there was somebody attacking from the shadows. They fired wildly into the dark, not realizing that the momentary muzzle flashes helped illume their positions.

  Phoomp—it was the sound of a bow returning to torsion, an arrow’s imperfections catching air, the air itself rushing to fill a vacuum, all blended together. The heavy thumping that followed was the arrow finding the leather of a human drum—a lung—that it beat and broke. The body dropped.

  Axe rushed outside—lion, not lamb—and swung left. She saw two Germans, side by side, half hidden where the wall of the long prison building terminated. She aimed and did not hesitate.

  Crack!

  Her bullet hit the mortared wall, showering the closest German with splinters of grit that merely stung his skin. He turned and aimed.

  Axe knew she was out of bullets. Time seemed to slow in the agony of the moment. She charged, running straight and true. At the same moment, Ken charged from the shadows. He screamed a war-cry of sorts then rolled, jumped, weaved left and right. One of the soldiers fired. Ken rolled again and came up swinging with his bow. It whipped into the man’s face with a sharp slap.

  Axe saw the man’s uniform, that of an officer—of Lieutenant Pfeiffer. She wished she did not know. It was easier if he was anonymous, a killer with no name. She ran, holding her rifle forward like a jousting stick. Lieutenant Pfeiffer fired. Three yards from him, Axe dropped.

  Ken spun and slapped his bow over Pfeiffer’s head, then turned, swept the legs with a low kick from the first soldier who was rising and used the man’s momentum to further drive his head hard into the ground.

  Again Ken spun. Pfeiffer was dazed; he tried to pick up his rifle and fumbled. Ken skipped behind him and tapped the back of his knee with a foot. He reached from behind and put his hand around Pfeiffer’s face and twisted, letting him fall against his own weight. The neck snapped and Pfeiffer’s body dropped forward.

  Ken ran to Axe. He turned her over. Her eyes were big and surprised, like the eyes of the Flemish Giant rabbits Ken had killed.

  “I’m sorry, Axe. So sorry. Ran out of arrows. Normally only need one. Only made three. He shot you. You are shot.”

  “Not your fault, Ken,” gasped Axe. “You came for me.”

  “Tell me what to do, Axe. You saved me on your farm, now I will save you. Tell me.”

  Axe breathed slowly. She lifted her head so she could see where she was shot. She put her hand on the bloody shirt and pressed down. She shrieked, then whimpered.

  Axe looked to Ken. “Get Sven. Inside. Rags for a bandage. Then to Godewyn. Take me to Godewyn.”

  65

  Michel bypassed the town. He followed a dirt road that, after a mile or two, would arrive at Axe’s farm.

  He saw something in the headlights. He dragged a rifle into his lap. It was a single figure in the middle of a road, standing over a bicycle.

  So late at night, Michel knew it could be a trap. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl and closed. It was a small man in civilian clothing. Michel looked left and right. There were deep ditches either side of the road, then fences and fields. He could not simply pass the man by. He either had to run him down—hope he jumped clear and, if not, potentially murder an innocent Belgian—or stop.

  Michel was close enough to see blood on the man’s face. Perhaps he had crashed, riding in the dark.

  Michel came to a stop twenty yards from the man. He poked his head out of the window and yelled in German, “Move!”

  Michel was in a German staff car. If the man thought him an annoyed German—especially an annoyed German officer—and had any sense, he would get the hell off the road.

  The man stayed put.

  “Move, you—” and suddenly the man did move, reaching beneath the bike and picking up a rifle. Michel hurried to bring his own rifle up. Movement in his peripheral vision made him turn. A weapon was pointed at Michel’s head. Michel looked up at the man.

  “Ken?”

  “Huh! Michel! Axe, everything is ok, I found Michel!” yelled Ken and lowered the blood-stained arrow.

  “What the fuck?” said Michel. He looked back at the man in the headlights. He still had a rifle pointed in his direction.

  “Sven,” called Ken. “It is Michel. Our friend. Everything is ok now. You should not shoot him, it is ok.”

  Sven lowered his rifle. He looked confused.

  Ken bent down to the car window and spoke rapidly. “I was going to get her out, Michel, but she got herself out too soon and the soldier shot her before I could stop him. I would have stopped him, I promise. I was there but she was too soon. I have to take her to Godewyn. He can fix her. Like he fixed you. He can fix her, can’t he?”

  “Axe is hurt? Where is she? What the fuck’s going on?”

  Ken pointed to the fence. “Other side.”

  Michel threw the door open. He ran, having forgotten his injury. Pain riffled through bone and flesh. His leg collapsed and Michel with it. He got up and limped forward. He looked over. There she was.

  Axe smiled. Her face—her beautiful russet complexion—had gone pale.

  “Michel,” she said serenely.

  He glanced down at the blood-soaked rags wrapped around Axe’s stomach. His mouth opened to say something, but the shock denied him words. His lip quivered.

  Ken hurdled the fence. “Help carry Axe, Michel.”

  Michel rolled his body over the fence. He bent down, ignoring the pain in his leg, and picked Axe up in his arms. He held her to his chest.

  “Did I do this?” whispered Michel.

  “No. I did,” said Axe. “You’re safe. I’m glad.”

  Sven had removed the bicycle from the road and was now standing on the other side of the fence, watching Michel and Axe. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he grimaced as if a new wave of pain found him.

  Michel smiled at Axe and said, “You’ll be all right. I promise.”

  Ken hopped across the fence. Michel gently placed Axe in Sven and Ken’s outstretched arms. He rolled over the fence and limped quickly to the car. He opened the rear door.

  “Here,” he said. “Lay her down.”

  Michel hobbled to the other side and crawled onto the seat. He took Axe’s shoulders from Ken and Sven and helped position her along the bench. Her head turned. Michel thought she was looking up at him, but she was looking past his shoulder.

  “My God …”

  “It’s ok, Axe, you’ll be ok,” said Michel.

  “I thought …”

  Michel spun around. With her one paw, Monster had hopped up to look over the seat, and was staring down at Axe. Her tail swatted the leather. She crooned a loving dog warble, at once sad and joyous.

  Tears glistened Axe’s eyes. Michel dragged Monster over the seat and put her beside Axe. Monster licked her face once and nuzzled her cheek. Axe dragged her hand across her body and draped it over Monster.

  “The miracle dog,” whispered Axe. She leant back and looked at Michel. She could barely keep her eyes open. “She brought you to me.”

  “Yes,” said Michel. He wiped a hand across his own face and eyes.

  He shut the door. Sven and Ken squeezed into the front beside Michel. The car jerked into motion and they sped toward Godewyn and Esmee’s farm.

  66

  Godewyn’s theater comprised a single room attached to the back of the house. It contained a table, some shelves, a sink and ta
p. It smelled of antiseptic. Axe lay on the table. Her shirt and improvised bandage had been cut through. Ken held a wad of white rags—slowly becoming red—on the stomach wound. Sven held Axe’s hand tightly, inadvertently helping to bring the veins in Axe’s reed-like arm to the surface.

  “That’s good, my boy, yes, just like that,” Godewyn said to the little Dutchman. Sven was as pale as Axe, and looked considerably more frightened.

  Godewyn flicked a syringe to dislodge tiny air bubbles that would be death if they entered a vein and found the heart, then he pushed the plunger till clear liquid squirted out. He bent down and looked into Axe’s half-open eyes.

  “Well, my dear Axe, a little morphine and you will not even remember pain.”

  “It does not hurt, not too much,” said Axe.

  “Good. Good,” said Godewyn. “And this will stop it getting worse. You know, this is the same drug I used on Monster when I had to remove her leg. Don’t worry. Your leg is fine. Perfectly fine. But I may have to take something else.”

  “You can have whatever you like, Godewyn,” Axe said slowly, “whatever you like.”

  “There, done.”

  He pulled the syringe from Axe’s arm. Esmee moved in to take his place; she pushed cotton wool onto the puncture to stop any bleeding. Esmee gently stroked Axe’s face with her other hand.

  Godewyn tapped Sven on the shoulder and stepped back to where Michel stood crookedly, his weight mostly on one leg. He looked like hell. They all looked like hell.

  “It is not good,” said Godewyn. “There’s damage to the stomach muscle, and I think that the bullet hit her kidney. I have to get in and sew up anything that is bleeding, and that kidney has to come out as soon as possible.”

  “A kidney?” said Sven in disbelief. “But she will die.”

  “No, no, she only needs one. That is not the greatest concern. It is the bleeding. She has bled a lot already. She will bleed more when I cut her open.”

  Sven grimaced and dropped his head. He could not look at Godewyn while he spoke of slicing Axe open.

  “There is not much time. The Germans will be coming for her. She is not safe here. None of you are. And the surgery … it is very delicate, I do not know if I am up to it. Maybe ten years ago, and on a farm animal. Even then …”

  “What are you talking about?” said Michel. “You took Monster’s leg off, didn’t you? You drilled into my fucking head! Do the surgery!”

  “I could, Michel. I could try. But there is a doctor. A real doctor. Not a veterinarian. And not so old. Matthias Konstantin. He is only five, six miles from here. Trustworthy.”

  “Jesus, a German?” said Michel.

  “No, Austrian. But twenty years a Belgian. And if I say he is trustworthy, he is trustworthy!” yelled Godewyn. It was so out of character that Michel said nothing in response.

  Godewyn held his hand out. “I am sorry. This is too important to quibble. He is a good doctor. And good man. Now listen to me. None of you can stay here. The soldiers will come, they will find you. If I try to operate, and we move Axe …” Godewyn shook his head. “She will bleed. Bleed too much. The best thing to do is move her now, take her to Matthias. He will operate. But …”

  “But what?”

  “I will tell you a story. Two years ago—”

  “The point, Godewyn. Forget the story. Just the point,” said Michel.

  “Yes, yes. She needs blood. Have you heard of transfusion? Blood transfusion?” said Godewyn.

  Sven shook his head, while Michel nodded.

  “On the front,” said Michel. “At the clearing stations for the wounded they sometimes give men in bad shape the blood of others. So they don’t die. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes. Since early last century blood transfusions have been—”

  “Just the point,” interrupted Michel.

  “The point is, she needs blood. For the journey. I can connect the syringes and tubes and give it to her.”

  “She can have mine,” said Sven.

  Godewyn glanced at the pale little man who looked like he barely had enough blood for himself.

  “She needs the right blood,” said Godewyn.

  “What does that mean?” said Michel.

  “We all have different blood. Different types. If you put the wrong type of blood in a person, the body will not take it. You may as well be injecting poison. They die.”

  “Then who has the right blood?” said Michel.

  “I don’t know,” said Godewyn. “There are tests to find out, but they take a long time.”

  “Then what? What the fuck do we do? Come on, Godewyn, the point!” said Michel.

  “If we have to give her blood but don’t know her blood type or anyone else’s, we must play the odds. A Belgian is most likely to have the same blood type as another Belgian. You are French. No good. You are Dutch, no good. Ken is … whatever he is, no good. Esmee and I, we are Belgian, but old. Too old. She needs younger blood.”

  “There is nobody!” said Michel.

  Godewyn shook his head.

  “There is one. Elmo. I need Elmo’s blood.”

  67

  Michel took Esmee. She had known Elmo his entire life. From the moment he opened his eyes and then his mouth and screamed as a newborn seeing the world for the first time. If he would listen to anyone, it was Esmee.

  Michel drove like an insane man. Esmee said nothing, just held on for dear life. The car stopped in a shower of stone and dust. They got out and both hobbled as quickly as they could to the front door of Elmo’s shack—the shack built beside the carcass of his burned-out home.

  Esmee knocked. She waited.

  Michel pushed in front and bashed his fist on the door, then turned the handle, flung the door open and walked inside. Esmee reached out and grabbed his arm. Michel stopped.

  “Let me, Michel,” said Esmee.

  She walked inside, calling out Elmo’s name. She checked the sole bedroom. There was no sign of him. She returned to where Michel was waiting, brooding.

  “He is not here,” Esmee said.

  “Let’s check the back.”

  Esmee and Michel heard him before they saw him. Heard the pitter patter of dirt landing on more dirt.

  “Elmo? It’s Esmee. Where are you, Elmo?”

  Michel pointed. Amid the overgrown trees, bushes and creepers, there was a small manicured patch of lawn surrounded by roses, lit by a flicker of candlelight. There were two graves with grave stones in their midst—and a third being dug.

  Elmo was shoulder deep in the hole. Only his head remained above the surface. He did not stop digging. It was as if he had not noticed Michel and Esmee.

  “Elmo. Elmo,” said Esmee. She continued on till standing at the hole.

  Michel stepped to the side and stood by a rifle—a .22 by the look of it—and a Bible, both on the ground. Both old and well used. If Elmo tried something, Michel would kick his teeth in before he could reach the rifle. But Elmo did not. He kept digging.

  “Elmo, what are you doing?” said Esmee.

  He finally stopped. He fixed Esmee in his gaze.

  “Digging my grave,” he said matter-of-factly. There was no emotion at all in Elmo. He did not look or sound surprised, angry, happy, sad. He was empty—once full, now empty.

  “I see,” said Esmee. “It’s past midnight, Elmo.”

  “Oh,” he said, and went back to digging.

  “Elmo. Elmo,” said Esmee.

  He stopped and looked up.

  “Why are you digging a grave?”

  “My grave,” he said, correcting her.

  “Your grave. Why are you digging your grave?”

  “It’s time,” he said.

  “Time for what, Elmo?”

  “To be buried with them. Just like it says. For the baptism of death. To raise them from the dead.”

  Esmee said nothing in response. She looked at Michel. There was no way for her to know what Michel was thinking: of ripping the man from the ground and delive
ring a few sense-giving punches to the head then dragging him back to Godewyn, tying him down if necessary, and draining every last drop of blood from his body. Then, when finished, he would happily throw his carcass in a grave.

  But Michel stilled himself. Fought for the patience he had learned and lost.

  “Elmo, I know you have always felt guilt for Hettie. And for Gabriel,” said Esmee.

  Finally emotion came to Elmo’s face. A look of petition. Like a child regarding a principal.

  “What if you could save a life, Elmo? Axe needs you. She needs you to share your blood with her. She is hurt very badly; she’ll die without it. You are the only one we trust, Elmo. We need your help. Axe needs your help.”

  “You trust me?”

  “Of course I do,” said Esmee. “I have known you all your days. I’ve always known what a good man you are. We all trust you. That is why we came. We need your help.”

  “My blood?”

  “Yes, your blood. It won’t hurt.”

  Elmo stared at the confines of his hole and muttered to himself. “Shedding blood … striving and shedding blood … sinner shedding blood …”

  He lunged. Michel used his foot to kick the rifle away, out of Elmo’s reach. Michel grunted as his knee flared with pain.

  But Elmo did not want the rifle. He was half out of the hole, just able to reach the Bible with his fingertips. He dragged it back and stood in his hole. He frantically flicked through pages, then held the book very close to his eyes. He swiveled to catch the candlelight. His eyes skimmed verses. He turned the page and kept reading.

  Michel looked at Esmee. He was done waiting. Esmee put her hand out. Her stern gaze stopped him in his tracks. Patience.

  Elmo stopped flicking pages. He read lines under his breath till he found the passage he sought. He repeated it, growing in volume with each recitation: “In your struggle against sin, you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your blood. In your struggle against sin, you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your blood.”