Burning Fields

by Alli Sinclair

  Abato motioned for Tomas to walk with him at the front of the line.

  “Why didn’t you shoot that soldier, Conti? If you see one, you shoot, because rest assured they wouldn’t think twice about shooting one of us.”

  “But—”

  “How can I trust you’ll protect my sister if you won’t kill a German or one of Mussolini’s bastards?”

  Tomas mulled over Abato’s question. He had a damn good point. Would Tomas trust someone to protect his family if they weren’t willing to shoot the enemy?

  “You can trust me. You have my word,” Tomas meant it.

  “The only reason I’m handing her over to you is because you never failed me or Rachel when we were kids. You defended us like we were of your own blood. Plus”—he fixed his gaze on Tomas—“she can stay with your family while she recovers.”

  “We’re not on speaking terms.”

  Abato reached up and grabbed Tomas’s shoulder so hard it felt like he was being pierced by knives. “Then fix it.”

  Abato held his gun at the ready, the hushed conversation apparently over. Tomas clutched his weapon and quietly followed Abato as they edged their way closer to the small hut. The rest of the men stood some distance away, their eyes peeled for any sudden movements.

  The moon pushed through the clouds, leaving the ramshackle house in hazy shadows. Half the roof was missing, the windows were boarded and an eerie silence permeated the cool night. Stepping lightly across the gravel, Tomas reached the side of the door and placed his back against the wall, his heart pounding, his body drenched in sweat.

  Abato stood on the other side of the door and quietly rapped out an intricate series of knocks. A second later a female voice asked, “Who is it?”

  “Who do you think?” Abato said, a smile in his voice—the first time Tomas had heard that since they were teenagers.

  The door clicked open and a small hand beckoned them. By the time they’d entered, Rachel was in a corner, hand resting on her belly. Her large eyes travelled from one man to the other.

  She jutted her chin toward Tomas. “Who is this?”

  “It’s me, Tomas Conti.” He stepped forward but stopped when Rachel reached under her shawl and pulled out a gun and aimed it at the middle of his forehead.

  “Who?” Her voice was steady and firm.

  “Don’t you remember?” He willed his voice to remain calm. “I lived on the next street over. In Palermo.”

  Rachel kept the gun pointed at Tomas as she glanced at Abato. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “Rachel, put the gun away. Why would I bring someone here to hurt you?” Abato glanced at Tomas then back at his sister. “Conti is here to help get you to—”

  “I am perfectly capable of getting to Palermo myself. Stefano shouldn’t have told you about what happened.” Her large eyes and small oval face gave her the appearance of a frightened woodland creature.

  “I’m glad he did and I’m happy you waited for me to get here.” The softness in Abato’s tone surprised Tomas.

  “It’s only because I have information you need now. Then I’ll be on my way to Palermo, and”—she glared at Tomas—“I will be going alone.”

  Abato handed a folded piece of paper to Tomas. “Take her here. This doctor is a sympathizer with our cause. Do not leave her side. I will be in contact when I can.”

  “Abato, a word, please.” Tomas motioned for Abato to join him in the far corner of the room.

  “What?” Abato growled.

  “Is she stable enough for the journey?”

  “You think I’d deliberately put my sister in danger?”

  “I know you wouldn’t,” said Tomas, not entirely convinced this statement was true. “It’s just that she seems to be in pain.”

  Abato reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flask. “This will help.”

  “Shouldn’t we check her wound?”

  “When did you get your medical degree?” Abato glanced over at his sister, who sat with her back against the wall, eyes closed, lips pursed.

  “I’m not trying to be difficult, I just need to know what we’re dealing with here.”

  “What we are dealing with is my sister needing to get to Palermo and receive medical help.”

  Tomas studied the green shawl on the ground, a small, dark red stain ruining the soft wool. The gun Rachel had clutched now lay at her side and next to her was a small battered notebook he hadn’t noticed before.

  Not caring about Abato’s potential wrath, Tomas went over to Rachel and knelt beside her. He gently touched her shoulder. “May I check your wound?”

  She turned away but winced and held her hand on her stomach.

  “Please, Rachel, I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

  She mumbled and nodded, the feistiness having faded.

  Tomas reached into his pack, pulled out his medical kit and lay it on top of the canvas. He unhooked the lantern from his pack and deftly lit a match, then the wick.

  “I’m just going to lift your shirt to look.” He did so and found a bandage caked in dried blood. “This dressing needs redoing and I’m going to need your brother to keep the light close so I can see what I’m doing.”

  Tomas looked over at Abato who willingly came over and cast the light near his sister’s side.

  Rinsing his hands in rubbing alcohol, Tomas asked, “Were you stabbed?”

  Silence.

  “Rachel, I need to know.”

  “Yes, but he came off worse than me.” Anger fueled her words.

  Rachel kept still while Tomas quickly set to work cleaning the wound and padding it with thick, sterile bandages. He felt her forehead. It was hot and clammy.

  “You need medicine for fever.” Tomas cocked his head in the direction of a bottle of liquid in his kit. Abato reached for it and passed it over. How quickly the roles had reversed.

  “Rachel…” Tomas offered her the capful of medicine.

  “I need to get to Palermo.”

  “You will,” Abato said, kindness in his tone. “Tomas will take you and keep you safe. Besides—” Abato continued whispering in her ear. Rachel’s grimaced and she nodded, her ashen face solemn.

  Whatever Abato said, had a marked effect on his sister. She got up gingerly and Abato grabbed the gun and book and stashed it in her pack.

  He whispered in her ear once more. She narrowed her eyes at Tomas. Enveloping her in a gentle hug, Abato kissed her on the cheeks then turned to Tomas.

  “I expect you to maim, destroy or kill anyone who tries to get in the way of my sister.” Abato held her hand and squeezed it. “And you, my dear sister, deliver that book the second you get to Palermo.”

  “Medical help first, of course?” Tomas asked, deliberately ignoring the reference to the book. If he was supposed to know what was in it, he’d be told.

  “Book then medical. Rachel agrees.”

  Abato handed Rachel’s rucksack to Tomas, who swung it over his shoulder.

  “One more thing, Conti.” Abato waved his pistol in Tomas’s direction. “If anything happens to my sister, I will hold you fully responsible.” He took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. “I will hunt you down. And I will kill you.”

  * * * *

  Tomas’s senses remained on high alert as he and Rachel traipsed through the predawn darkness up and down the valleys, slowly making their way to Palermo. The option of using a vehicle or animal was too risky as they needed to stay away from roads and remain undetected. They had started out at a reasonable pace, but as the miles unraveled behind them, Rachel’s breathing grew more labored. Up until now he hadn’t doubted she was strong enough, but as the hours slid by, so did her strength. The short distance left to Palermo felt as far away as London or New York.

  Rachel stumbled on small rocks and Tomas grabbed her before she toppled int
o the ravine.

  “We should rest for a minute.” He motioned for her to sit on a large rock at the end of a valley. That way he could keep a close eye on the paths in and out, in case company they’d rather not keep happened along.

  “No,” she said. “We need to keep going.”

  “Rest,” Tomas said firmly and steered her to the rock. He pulled out his canteen, undid the lid and handed it to her. “Drink.”

  “Walk.” The word sounded strangled.

  “Rachel, you will not make it if you don’t take a moment to eat and drink.” He stood above her, his hands on his hips. If being an ogre meant she’d listen, then so be it. “It is my job to get you to safety and I am not going to fail.”

  “Because my brother will kill you?” A small laugh escaped her lips and her breathing seemed more steady. “He’s changed, hasn’t he?”

  “We all have,” Tomas said.

  “Not you.” Rachel took a swig from the canteen then handed it back to him. She winced and her hand covered her abdomen.

  “You should drink some more.”

  “I’ve drunk enough. Ow!” She doubled over, clutching her stomach.

  Tomas pulled the pack off his shoulders and looked for the medical kit.

  “No.” Rachel shook her head vehemently. “Let’s just go.”

  Tomas placed his hand on her forehead. “You’re burning up again.”

  “I’m fine.” Her face scrunched up.

  “You are far from fine. Now lie on this.” He took off his jacket and spread it on part of the rock that formed a natural bench. Tomas lit the lantern, uneasy about it broadcasting their presence.

  “No, Tomas. Let’s just go.”

  “Not until I check your wound.” He pointed to where his jacket lay.

  Rachel glared at him but did as he asked. He handed her the canteen so she had something to grip as he did his work. Cleaning his hands, Tomas ever-so-slowly lifted the bandage, the lantern’s light casting a yellow glow.

  Rachel’s normally pale skin looked red raw around the wound and a viscous, yellow fluid leaked from the site. Tomas quickly set to work and cleaned what he could, aware that every second the wound was exposed meant it could get worse. What was he to do, though? Leave it to fester and have her die in the mountains? Abato’s threats came rushing back but they were unnecessary. Of course, Tomas would do everything in his power to help Rachel and he certainly didn’t need the added pressure of Abato’s threats hanging over his head. Though Tomas wasn’t so naïve as to think the threats were empty.

  This situation only brought home how very unprepared he was for life out in the field. Even though many groups like Abato’s existed and were fighting for the same cause—freedom from fascists—they didn’t work together, leaving gaps in the network, gaps that could be ripped apart by the more experienced German and Italian soldiers.

  After he cleaned and dressed the wound, Tomas quickly set about packing up. Rachel remained on the rock, her eyes closed while she tried to catch her breath. He went to shove the bottle of rubbing alcohol in the side pocket of Rachel’s pack but it wouldn’t go in. His fingers felt around inside the pocket and he found the book. Pulling it out, he glanced over at Rachel who lay still, her eyes firmly shut.

  Tomas quickly turned his back to her. He should leave well enough alone but if he were risking his life getting Rachel and this all-important book to Palermo, surely he should be privy to its contents. He flicked open a page. In neat, cursive writing were names, dates and coordinates. None of it made sense.

  Rachel stirred and he quickly shut the book and thrust it into the pocket.

  A solitary tear slid from the corner of Rachel’s eye and Tomas moved to wipe it away, but changed his mind, unsure if she’d misconstrue his action.

  “An hour more and we’ll be there,” he said quietly.

  Rachel opened her eyes and nodded, her bottom lip trembling. Giving in to the desire to comfort her, he moved toward her, but stopped when she jutted out her chin, a slight spark in her eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

  * * * *

  Despite the festering wound weakening Rachel’s whole body, she pushed through the pain. As they moved through the deserted streets of Palermo, a sense of foreboding overwhelmed Tomas, but he swatted it away, refusing to spend time worrying about what-ifs.

  The rising sun cast an orange glow on the cobblestoned streets as they turned the last corner. Rachel leant heavily on Tomas as he tried to keep her going, her legs barely able to support her weight. Thankfully, the street remained quiet. Tomas scanned the houses, trying to find the right one. He spotted it a few doors up and he turned to Rachel, whose face was ashen, her lips without color.

  He helped her to sit on the nearest doorstep. Bending down, he whispered, “Just wait here. I’ll go and check we’ve got the right place.”

  She leant against the railing as he hurried to the house and climbed the steps. Tomas rapped on the door with the same series of knocks he’d learnt from Abato and a moment later the sound of shoes rapidly crossing floorboards echoed down the hallway behind the door.

  “Who is it?” asked a gruff voice in a half-whisper.

  “Dr. Bianchi, I’m a friend of Bruno Abato’s. I have a package.”

  A second later the door clicked open. A short, round man in his seventies peered over thick glasses. The creases in the doctor’s forehead were deep, like he’d spent all his days scowling. His pallid complexion made him look sickly, and the red rims of his eyes gave the impression he and sleep were not acquaintances.

  “Where is it?” the doctor asked.

  “Down the road.”

  He stuck his head out the doorway and spotted Rachel slumped over. “Get her inside!”

  Tomas ran to Rachel and scooped her in his arms. Her head rolled back and her eyes fluttered as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Tomas hurried into the doctor’s residence and quickly followed him to the back of the house, his arms aching from Rachel’s dead weight. They turned a sharp left and Tomas found himself standing in a sterile room that reeked of ammonia.

  “On the table!” barked the doctor and Tomas gently lay down Rachel.

  “Owww,” she moaned and clutched her side. Her eyes flew open, full of panic.

  “It’s all right. Dr. Bianchi will look after you.” Tomas looked over to where the doctor was busy scrubbing his hands.

  “The book…” Her voice sounded so small in the large room.

  “It can wait.”

  “No. We need to…” She rolled over and dry-retched. All that came up was foul smelling bile that left a trail down the side of her face. Tomas grabbed the nearest cloth and wiped it away. She whimpered and clutched his arm so hard her fingernails dug in and broke his skin. He stood steadfast, stroking her clammy forehead.

  Tomas was thankful Rachel couldn’t see the look on the doctor’s face as he stood behind her and filled a syringe with clear liquid. His solemn expression did nothing to allay Tomas’s fears that this could be too little too late. Had Tomas pushed her too far? Should they have risked travelling by road?

  Abato’s words came smashing in to his consciousness and repeated on an endless spool: If anything happens to my sister, I will hold you fully responsible. I will hunt you down. And I will kill you.

  Rachel’s groans grew more intense and Tomas held her cold, sweaty fingers as he muttered, “You will be up and about before you know it.”

  “Promise?” she rasped.

  He studied her dark, sad eyes so full of trust. “I…”

  The doctor shoved the thick needle into her arm and injected the fluid.

  Rachel’s screams filled the room.

  Chapter 8

  Rosie sliced the custard apple in half with so much force the knife wedged in the chopping board. Pulling the fruit apart, she jabbed the spoon into the soft pale flesh an
d scooped it into a glass bowl. Tension raced across her shoulders, and her temples throbbed. She forced herself to take a moment and rested her hands on the counter top, her head lowered. This anger was ridiculous. She was very relieved that Dr. Wilkinson had managed to see her father so quickly after he collapsed, but hadn’t her family suffered enough with losing Geoffrey and Alex? Why would God put them through more grief by her father suffering a stroke?

  Forcing her anger to a simmer, she sliced the lemon and drizzled the juice over the custard apple, just how her father liked it. Once again, hot tears welled up in Rosie’s eyes with the realization of how close they’d come to losing him. For all his bluster and stubbornness, she loved him dearly and couldn’t imagine a world without him.

  Rosie took a deep breath and poured ice-cold water into a glass and placed it on the tray. She finished off the presentation by adding her father’s favorite hibiscus to a small vase. The violet with pink around the edges represented happiness and she liked to think it had that effect on her father, even if only for a moment.

  “Hellooooooo!” The screen door creaked open and Rosie went down the hallway to meet Kitty, whose belly was rounder than a beach ball. In her hands, she balanced a small wooden box filled with jars of pickles, tomatoes, and bottles of…something.

  Rosie grabbed the load from her friend as they both made their way to the kitchen. Whispering, she said, “Thank you, but you didn’t have to.”

  Kitty whispered back. “Is your dad asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s he doing?” Her voice was back at its normal volume. If this was Kitty’s attempt at a whisper she pitied her poor baby. This child would never sleep.

  “Fair to middling,” Rosie said.

  “How are you?” Kitty touched Rosie’s arm lightly.