Dark Destiny

by M. J. Putney

  Blakesley flashed a quick smile. “Much worse. I’m in the Royal Marines. We’re the navy’s infantry, and we’ve been doing most of the fighting. Whenever there’s a naval battle, we’re there. But my father may never forgive me for joining the navy.”

  “Colonel Dawson needs to be notified even if he’s an idiot,” Allarde said. “Is there someone in the area who has authority and is respected? The lord lieutenant of Carmarthenshire, perhaps? There’s no time to waste.”

  As Blakesley and Allarde talked, Tory covered a yawn. Cynthia was in Jack’s lap as they both slept under another knee robe, and Elspeth was dozing peacefully on the sofa. Tory had no idea what would happen, but she needed all the rest she could get, so she found another knee robe and a love seat that fit her rather well.

  From what Blakesley had said, the local defenses wouldn’t have a chance against more than a thousand trained French troops. If this battle was to be won, it would take magic. And that meant the Irregulars.

  * * *

  Tory woke when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She knew it was Allarde even before she opened her eyes.

  He knelt beside her sofa. Keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the others, he said, “Bran and his batman and I are going to ride into Carmarthen to notify the authorities. Then we’ll come back with a bonesetter for Elspeth.”

  She smiled sleepily. “You’re on a first-name basis now?”

  He grinned. “I call him Bran, he calls me Allarde. He’s a good fellow. I’ll tell you about the last time I saw him when we have time.” He leaned forward for a kiss, his lips deliciously warm.

  Waking up fast, she slipped her hand around his neck and kissed him back. That ended when someone nearby cleared his throat meaningfully. She opened her eyes and saw Bran suppressing a grin.

  Allarde smiled ruefully and stood. “We’ll be back by dawn, I think. If anyone is hungry, there’s food in the pantry. Try to rest as much as you can.”

  “Then what?” she asked.

  “I have no idea, but I imagine it will be interesting.”

  Tory rolled her eyes, then pulled the knee robe over her head. She was rather tired of “interesting”!

  CHAPTER 12

  Lackland, 1940

  “Rebecca, I’m driving to school this morning.” Mrs. Rainford checked her briefcase to make sure she had her lesson plans for the day. “Would you like a ride?”

  Rebecca looked up from her bowl of porridge. “No, thank you. Andy and I are going to walk down with some of the little girls from the junior school.”

  Polly finished off the last bite of her porridge. “By next week I’ll be strong enough to walk, too, Mum.”

  “I hope so,” her mother said briskly. “Petrol for the motorcar is hard to come by. No more lazing about for you, Miss Polly.” She brushed her daughter’s blond hair affectionately.

  “I have decided I will never be sick again,” Polly said, wrinkling her nose. “Blood poisoning is such a bore!”

  Rebecca smiled, enjoying the morning routine of breakfast and chat. Nick’s school started earlier, so he’d already left. Polly had returned to classes two days before, so the kitchen was busy in the morning, but the household ran smoothly. Everyone, including Rebecca, had assigned chores. Her job was keeping the kitchen and bathroom clean. She liked the work because it made her feel like a member of the household, not just a guest. It was all wonderfully normal and civilized.

  As Polly carried her bowl and tea mug to the sink, she said, “Rebecca, Nick and I wondered if we could do Friday night Shabbat dinners. Could you show us?”

  Rebecca halted in her washing up as a vivid memory of life before the war flared in her mind. The songs, the silver candlesticks inherited from her grandmother, the warm sense of belonging and family … “Why do you want to do that?”

  “To learn, of course. I want to know more of Jewish customs. That is, if you don’t mind?”

  Rebecca suspected that Nick might have put his sister up to asking for this, but it was a nice thought. “Mrs. R., would you be willing to hold a Shabbat here?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Rainford smiled. “I’m as interested as Polly and Nick. Having you here is a wonderful window into French and Jewish culture. If you’re willing, we’ll talk later about what is required, but for now, it’s time for you to be off!”

  Rebecca rinsed her dishes, put on her coat, and slung her book bag over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in school.”

  After a scratch on the head for Horace, the Rainford family dog, she headed out. She loved this walk along the cliff path. This morning a light mist lay over the sea, but pale sunshine was struggling to get through. She mentally recited a Hebrew prayer of thanks for having been led to this wonderful place.

  When thoughts of Nick and his teasing smile crept in, she firmly dismissed them. He made it a habit to meet her after school so they could walk home together. It was the high point of her day, but that was because they were friends. Nothing more.

  She smiled ruefully because she wasn’t good at lying to herself. Nick wasn’t like anyone else she’d ever met. His energy and appetite for life and learning affected her the way catnip entranced a cat. The day before, Rebecca had received two books on Jewish history and customs from her mother, and Nick had immediately grabbed one and allowed Polly to read the other. Which was probably why a Rainford version of the Shabbat dinner was in the works.

  It was impossible not to appreciate Nick’s effort and interest. Which made the whole situation more complicated.

  As she came in sight of the road down to the village, she saw Andy and three little girls. Andy waved a greeting. “Morning, Rebecca!”

  Andy’s family also lived on the bluff above the village, on the other side of the road, so they met here each morning to walk down. The three smaller girls had mothers doing war work. Since the mothers weren’t able to walk the girls to school, Andy did. The junior school was just a block beyond Lackland Girls Grammar.

  “Good morning, Rebecca!” The little girls, Gillie, Margery, and Lizbet, greeted her in a chorus. They were adorable little English blondes.

  Rebecca greeted them with a smile, and the group turned into the path beside the road. There was little traffic at this hour except for a couple of people on bicycles. With petrol rationed, no one drove a motorcar without a good reason.

  As the little girls chatted, Andy fell into step beside Rebecca. “I heard on the wireless that there were several dogfights over Kent early this morning and fighter planes were shot down near here.” She shook her head vehemently. “I hate this!”

  Rebecca sighed. “So do I. Were there parachutes?”

  Andy nodded. “So the wireless said. God willing, the pilots survived.”

  Rebecca was glad that the wireless hadn’t been on in the kitchen this morning. With Joe Rainford an RAF fighter pilot, news of planes being shot down would upset everyone in the family. It would upset Rebecca, even though she’d met him only briefly.

  Such news wasn’t uncommon, though. This coastal county, Kent, was right on the major route for Luftwaffe airplanes heading toward London, so the Luftwaffe and the defending RAF aircraft fought regularly in the skies above. Wanting to change the subject, Rebecca asked a question about their upcoming mathematics class, which was always an effective distraction for Andy.

  They were nearing the village when a wild-eyed man burst out of the shrubbery, wearing the gray uniform of a Luftwaffe pilot and the life vest worn by pilots who flew over the English Channel. He was dirty and bruised, and blood oozed from a head wound.

  “Halt!” he shouted as he clenched the pistol in both shaking hands, aiming at the girls. He looked frightened enough for any kind of stupid behavior. In German, he continued, “Raise your hands! Don’t move!”

  Rebecca stopped, her pulse hammering. One of the little girls shrieked, and that set off the other two as Andy tried to hush them. Rebecca knew German, so she raised her voice and translated, “Hold still and raise your hands, and no screami
ng! He’s frightened, he doesn’t want to hurt us.”

  The shrieking subsided to tears as the little girls clung to one another. Rebecca hoped she was right that he wasn’t dangerous. She raised her hands and said in German, “We’re just schoolgirls. You have nothing to fear from us.”

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You speak Deutsche. Sehr gut. Tell the children I will not hurt them if they behave. I need hostages to get me to a boat so I can sail home across the Channel. Boats are in the village, ja?”

  He seriously thought he could steal a boat and sail to France? The odds of that were only slightly better than if he flapped his arms and tried to fly under his own power! The man was out of his mind with fear. No, not a man, a boy, surely not much more than twenty. Despite his youth, he was a captain, a Hauptmann.

  “Yes, Herr Hauptmann, there are a number of boats in the harbor,” she said respectfully as she tried to inject soothing magic into her voice. Switching to English, she said, “Andy, the captain wants to use us as hostages to get down to the harbor where he can steal a boat. We need to go with him quietly, and then he’ll let us go.”

  Gillie, the most timid of the girls, wailed and tried to run away. As the pistol swung toward her, Andy grabbed Gillie by the arm and pulled her back. “Don’t run, Gillie!” Face pale, she lifted the little girl in her arms. “It’s safer to stay here.”

  Gillie buried her face in Andy’s shoulder and sobbed. The pilot looked so unnerved that Rebecca was afraid he might shoot just to silence the little girl.

  Rebecca decided that it was time to discover just what her magic would do. Soothing again, she said, “Herr Hauptmann, walking through the village with five hostages will attract too much attention. The police might be called. One of the little girls might panic and run away and you don’t want to shoot anyone, do you?”

  He shook his head numbly. “I do not want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again.”

  He was suffering from some form of shell shock, Rebecca realized. After the 1914–1918 war, many soldiers had been stressed to the breaking point. This young fellow had been fighting nonstop for months, and being shot down was the last straw. On top of that, his head injury might mean a concussion. The man was as unpredictable as dynamite. If she could touch him as she had Sylvia, could she heal some of his pain and make him less dangerous?

  It was worth a try. “You only need one hostage. Me,” she said in German. “Let the other girls walk away up the hill. You can see there are no houses, nowhere they can call the police. I will take your arm like a girlfriend and you can hold your weapon concealed against me so you know that I will not scream or run away. I will walk you down to the harbor. There is a quiet lane parallel to the High Street where we’re not so likely to be seen. Then you can sail away home.”

  It took his befuddled mind time to process that. Finally he nodded. “That is a good plan. Tell the other girls to start walking back up the hill. When they are halfway up, you will take me to the harbor.”

  She glanced at Andy. “He’s agreed to release you and the little girls and just take me as a hostage. Start walking up the hill with the girls. When you’re halfway up, he’ll take me down to the harbor.”

  Andy gasped, “No!”

  “Do it!” Rebecca snapped. “I should be all right. And if worse comes to worst … well, the damage will be limited.”

  Andy bit her lip. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever known. Now be careful!” She set Gillie down and instructed the little girls to join hands with her and they’d walk home. Confused but obedient, the little girls did as they were told, though Lizbet cast worried glances over her shoulder.

  When the retreating girls were well up the hill, Rebecca said, “Now I will take your arm and we will walk quietly down to the harbor.”

  The pilot awkwardly offered his left arm while keeping the pistol in his right hand under his jacket. It was aimed right at her. Rebecca hoped to God that he wouldn’t stumble and shoot her accidentally.

  Telling herself that this time she must control the magic rather than let it rush, she took his arm. As when she and Sylvia touched, she experienced a flood of thoughts and emotions, but this time she was less overwhelmed. More controlled.

  The pilot blinked uncertainly as energy blazed between them. Though different from the energy of attraction between Rebecca and Nick, it was strong enough that she wasn’t surprised that he felt something.

  When he frowned down at her, she smiled. “Shall we proceed, Herr Hauptmann?”

  “Herr Hauptmann Schmidt. Your name, Fräulein?”

  “Rebecca Weiss.” She thought it a good sign that he’d introduced himself and asked her name.

  As they headed down the street, she sorted through the turmoil of his emotions. As she expected, Schmidt was terrified, but he was also despairing. He’d been raised in a religious home and taught compassion and peace, but he’d rebelled against that. The Luftwaffe had offered excitement. Glamour. Adoring and cooperative girls. He loved flying, until the war started and he had to start shooting at other men.

  His eyes and hands and brain were designed for combat flying, but his soul wasn’t. He’d reached the point of half hoping he’d die in a blaze of redemptive fire, but the basic desire to survive had kept him alive. Now he was in England, and on some deep level he expected a horrible punishment and humiliating death for all he’d done.

  The deeper she went into his spirit, the more intense his emotions. It was a struggle not to drown in them. Drawing back a little, she wondered what she could do for the poor man that would help him and everyone around him.

  With a vague idea in mind, she said, “This war is a terrible thing for all of us.”

  “Indeed it is,” he said bleakly.

  “You have been a pilot for a long time?”

  “Too long.” Changing the subject, he said, “Your German is very good, but your accent is not that of an Englishwoman.”

  “I am French,” she explained. “My family had to flee France. I’ve only been in England for a fortnight.”

  He looked at her more closely. “You are Jewish,” he said, suspicion in his voice. “Your people rule the world from behind closed doors.”

  She was both angry and amused. “Not my family. My parents are doctors and I wish to become one, too. We are healers, not rulers of the world.” She slid into his mind and sought the anti-Semitism that had been planted by vicious anti-Jewish propaganda. Using her anger, she flooded the ugly prejudice with white light.

  He frowned, confused, as if he didn’t know what to think now that the bigotry had been removed. “I’ve heard so many bad things about Jews, but I’ve not seen such evil myself.” He glanced down at her again, his brow furrowed. “You are not evil.”

  “I should hope not!” Later she might feel guilty about altering his mind and attitudes. But not guilty enough to regret doing it.

  Since his attitude was softening, she said earnestly, “Herr Hauptmann Schmidt, you will never make it across the Channel alive. Why not surrender? You have served your nation well. It will not benefit the Fatherland for you to die in an attempt to escape England.”

  “I deserve death!” he said with despair.

  “For being a soldier?” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Nonsense! Fighting for your country makes you a patriot, not a criminal.”

  “My father was a Lutheran minister and he taught me a higher law.” The pilot swallowed hard. “Under that law, I’m a villain.”

  “Isn’t Christianity a religion of repentance and redemption?”

  “Oh, I repent,” he said softly. “Every hour of every day. But I have my doubts about redemption.”

  “If penance will make you feel better, surrender to the authorities,” she said with a touch of dryness. “This will be a long war, I think. As a prisoner, you won’t be starved or tortured, but you will have to suffer years of mind-numbing boredom as penance.” She had a swift mental image of him plowing a field behind a team
of horses. “Or perhaps they will make prisoners of war become farmhands since so many men are in the armed forces. That would be another kind of penance.”

  He liked that idea, she sensed. He’d worked on his grandparents’ farm as a boy, and being on the land again would soothe the jagged edges of his spirit. In a flash of what must be foretelling magic, Rebecca felt sure that if he chose this path, he’d meet a girl who could make all the difference in his life.

  She poured that image into his mind. Peace. Redemption. No more killing. All those elements were blended in the torrent of pure white light that illuminated the darkest corners of his spirit, dissolving the worst of the guilt and leaving hope.

  Softly she said, “You have done your duty, Herr Hauptmann Schmidt. You can surrender now with all honor.”

  Lowering the hand that held the pistol to his side, he stopped walking and closed his eyes. Uncertainty and confusion were written on his tormented face. “Can there be honor for a man who doesn’t want to fight?”

  “Honor and redemption,” she said firmly. “I read a story once about one of the Native American Indian chiefs. They were the fiercest of warriors, you know. Yet this Chief Joseph said, ‘I will fight no more forever.’ All warriors must someday come to an end of war.” She held out her hand. “Give me your pistol, Herr Hauptmann Schmidt. You need fight no more forever.”

  She could feel how torn he was between the light she was sending and the darkness that had poisoned his soul for so long. As she waited, scarcely able to breathe, she heard running steps behind her and a soft, anguished gasp.

  She glanced to her left and saw Nick approaching. His eyes were wide and he looked as if he’d run all the way from his school. Had he sensed her danger?

  Guessing that he might tackle the Nazi pilot, she made a quick gesture with her left hand. Wait!

  He bit his lip but skidded to a halt a dozen steps away, trusting her judgment.

  “I will fight no more forever.” The pilot opened his eyes, his expression at peace. Then he handed her the weapon butt first. “I surrender to you, Fräulein Weiss.”