Silent

by David Mellon

  “One of the infirmaries,” said Henri, “just there.” He pointed across to a piece of wall, held up by a briar rose. “Next to that. Down in the basement. I’ll meet you there with your furlough orders.” He started away. “Oh! And don’t leave without your mail. I’m tired of carrying it around.”

  He stopped again. “Listen. I know you’ve got to report back to Foch. But when you’re done—get home, hear? Quick as you can. But be careful.”

  • • •

  The soldier’s head was wrapped in bandages, cotton pads over both his eyes. Coal held the young man’s arm, helping him across the patch of rough ground.

  “Right,” said Coal. “But isn’t the—doesn’t the mustard gas pool up in the bottom of the craters?”

  “Yes, Father, sometimes, when it’s cold.”

  Coal was dressed in an army chaplain’s uniform, white clerical collar, a silver cross on his lapel.

  “So, you think,” said Coal, “that God is punishing you for—?”

  “Because I’m a coward, Father. If I hadn’t hid in a hole. If I’d kept going with my mates, I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t be like this.”

  “Here, sit.” Coal sat the lad down on a crate in the warm sunlight. Dragging over another box, he winced as he took a seat next to the boy. From that vantage point, he could see most of the camp. He patted his pockets for his spectacles. Lately, he could hardly go out in daylight hours without tinted lenses. He’d taken these off an engineer in the wreck of a troop train near the Italian border the previous year.

  “So, instead of being blind, you’d be dead like your friends?”

  The boy fumbled trying to get a cigarette from the pack. Maybe he was crying. It was hard to tell, the lad’s eyes bandaged as they were.

  “Give it to me.”

  Coal tapped a cigarette out the pack, pulled the petrol lighter from his pocket, and lit it. He took a drag and stuck it between the soldier’s lips.

  “Do you know,” said Coal, “why Moses wasn’t allowed into the Promised Land? After forty years in the desert?”

  “No, Father. Why?”

  “No, I’m asking you,” said Coal. “I’ve read it a hundred times and it still doesn’t make any sense. God tells him, Moses, to strike the rock with his staff, once, to get water. Moses hits it twice. God gets angry at him.”

  “But I don’t—what’s that got to do with . . . ?”

  Coal looked past the soldier and saw Adi and the old man coming up out of the mess, trays in hand.

  “I don’t know. Just that I don’t think it pays to lean too much on this whole ‘God’s will’ thing.”

  “Father?” said the young man, confused.

  “You can’t say He picks favorites, though, can you? Even if you’re Moses.

  “What amazes me,” said Coal, rolling his shoulder, trying in vain to ease the ache, “is that in the face of all this you can still ask these questions. Whether you’re a good man, whether you’ve done the best you can? How bad would things have to be, before you wouldn’t ask these questions, I mean?”

  Coal watched as the girl sat herself on a bench, the doctor next to her. She pushed her food around on her tray and stared into space.

  “I don’t know, Father. Can it get any worse than this?”

  “In Hell, maybe.” Coal took one of the lad’s cigarettes for himself and returned the pack to the boy’s pocket.

  “I guess that’s all Hell is, really. Just the place where no one asks questions anymore.”

  • • •

  Coal sat smoking on his wooden ammo box, leaning to the side occasionally to keep out of the girl’s line of sight. He hardly need bother. She wasn’t noticing much of anything these days.

  Under his breath he cursed. It was inconceivable. The girl—still here, still playing this imbecilic game. Would she not concede, even now? Less than a week. What chance did she have? Wincing, he dug his thumb into his shoulder.

  For a time, the wound had appeared to be, if not improving, at least not getting worse. But in the last few months it had festered again, seeping through bandages, ruining his clothes. He could hardly use his right arm anymore. And he was sure that the gash was giving off a foul odor.

  It had taken him much too long to recognize the bind he was in. Until the game was done, he couldn’t take the watch back. But without the watch, he would . . . ? Well, he was not exactly sure what. He had become convinced of one thing, however: the seconds ticking away were not just the boys’, but his as well.

  He fiddled with a ring, too small to push past the first knuckle on his little finger. He’d taken it a couple of weeks before from the hand of a girl buried in the rubble of a bombed-out building in Tolmezzo, in northern Italy.

  He couldn’t identify the stone, couldn’t see the color. Another result, he was certain, of being so long separated from his watch. In fits and starts, all his senses had grown dull. It was a wonder he could even walk. And the headaches and the—

  “For Christ’s sakes,” he said out loud. “Stop your whining and do something.”

  The young man sat up, as if he’d been slapped. “But—I—I—” he stuttered.

  “No. I don’t mean you,” said Coal.

  “But—you’re right, Father. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. There are men with no arms. No faces.”

  Coal looked over to see the girl and the old man getting up from their bench. They dropped their trays off and started back.

  Coal got to his feet as well. He dropped his cigarette into the mud and pushed at it with the toe of his boot. Taking hold of the young soldier’s arm, he pulled him up.

  “Come on boy. Can’t sit around here all day. There’s work to be done.”

  • • •

  Doc and Adi made their way back to the infirmary; there was only so long they could stand seeing soldiers eating Maconochie and milk biscuit sludge.

  As she and Doc came down the steps into the infirmary, Thomas was the first one she saw. He was steadying another soldier who was in the process of having the wound on his arm irrigated. They’d heard the man cursing half a block away.

  The same instant that she saw Thomas, she heard:

  “God sakes, Augustin. Keep this up and you’re going to wake the Germans.”

  “They’re eighty kilometers away,” said Augustin.

  “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

  It was George—his hair cut shorter, his face leaner, but looking splendid in uniform.

  He turned and looked right at Adi.

  But with the morning sun streaming into the basement all he could see were two silhouetted figures coming down the steps.

  Adi stood frozen, the weight of years and the strain of impending failure rendering her brain nearly unable to grasp what was before her eyes.

  Doc said to the intern cleaning Augustin’s wound, “You can’t just bandage that! Goux. Show him how to stitch this up.”

  Before she knew it, Adi was up the stairs and running. Pushing past soldiers, she ran through the tents and fled down into the communications trenches, into what used to be the trenches of the front lines.

  Gasping for breath she collapsed onto the firing shelf. A big brown rat grudgingly moved aside, scuttling back into a space between the sandbags. It watched as Adi stood up, sat down, and stood again and then proceeded, her fists clenched, to stomp circles in the mud.

  • • •

  By the time she got her nerve up to go back, they were gone. As she slunk down the stairs, she gestured to Doc, something about the food making her sick.

  Doc wasn’t buying it, but he let it pass.

  When she found out later that afternoon that George and Thomas and the other man had left the camp, she teetered between disappointment and relief, which only took a moment to turn to despair. It gathered over her like a small dark planet.

  It was just her bad luck that there were no Germans across no-man’s-land to put her out of her misery. Though she knew she was too much of a coward for that.


  She opted instead for a bombed-out house down the road away from the river. She dropped down at the bottom of a ruined staircase, put her fists to her face, and cried till the stars came out.

  Chapter 30

  Xander and Xavier had been spying on Brother Christopher for several weeks now, which somewhat explained why they were peeking at him from the inside of an armoire in the abbot’s office at 1:30 in the morning.

  The boys had often thought there was something curious about Brother Christopher.

  Men who chose a monastic life, they had noticed, were by nature ofttimes a bit peculiar. There was always something illicit going on in an abbey. Inappropriate reading material. Middle-of-the-night visits to the kitchen. Difficulties with celibacy vows. Graffiti in the latrines. Smoking behind the library.

  Brother Christopher, as far as anyone knew, engaged in none of these activities. He was the picture of a proper brother and had been since he’d joined the abbey a short time after the abbot arrived. Always on time, conscientious, hard-working, and modest. Behavior he’d encouraged, with debatable success, in the boys.

  Which was why it struck them as noteworthy when it was rumored that Brother Christopher had been spotted of late in odd places at odder hours with strange people. Or so several senior boys had informed them (in barter for Xander’s copy of a magazine with an illustration of a naked mermaid on the cover).

  It wasn’t long before they were playing detective. Xander had protested. He held Brother Christopher in very high regard, knowing he was largely responsible for pulling them through that first dark year after they’d arrived. But with as much concern as curiosity, the boys began shadowing him.

  Just when they thought there was nothing to the rumors—precisely at the point when Xander had begun to declare, “I told you so”—they saw Brother Christopher sneaking into the abbot’s house in the wee hours.

  What were they to do? Confront him? Snitch on him, when Father Abbot returned from his trip? More information was what they needed.

  • • •

  The first night, the only creature other than themselves that entered the little office was a good-sized rat. He stopped and sniffed up at the crack in the door of the wardrobe where they had hidden before going on his way.

  The next night they’d had a trickier time getting out of the boys’ dorm unseen. By the time they arrived at the abbot’s quarters, someone was already there in the office; it was hard to say whom. They returned to their beds. Hours of lost sleep were not helping their schoolwork.

  Third time was the charm. Not long after they had settled themselves in the back of the closet, they heard the door to the house creak open, more quietly than if it were the abbot himself.

  Peeking out through the abbot’s vestments, the boys watched as Brother Christopher secured the door to the office behind him and then struck a match, lighting a stub of candle from his pocket. He placed it on top of a paperweight and set to work. From the sound of it, he was attempting to pick a lock on one of the drawers in the great desk. Apparently unsatisfied with his tool, he searched about until he found a letter opener. Pushing the chair back he weighed the knife in his hand and stood up. He came straight for the wardrobe and flung open the doors.

  “Dammit! I should have known!” whispered Brother Christopher to the two wide-eyed faces staring out from the shadows. “Well, get out of there! You’ve got to leave. You can’t be found here.” He grabbed them by their shirtfronts, pulling them from the cabinet.

  “But, Brother. What are you doing here?” Xander gestured to the desk. “What are you trying to find?”

  “Doesn’t matter, the locks are impossible,” he hissed. He dragged them to the door. “Now come on.”

  “Not for Xavier,” whispered his brother.

  “What?”

  “I’ve already been in the locked ones,” said Xavier. “What d’you want in there? It’s just papers.”

  Brother Christopher stopped, calculating furiously.

  “How long would it take you?”

  “Why are you doing it?”

  Brother Christopher pulled at his earlobe. “You’re just going to have to trust me.” Without waiting for a response he pushed the boys behind the desk and pulled aside a curtain. “How about this trunk? Can you get in there?”

  “Probably,” said Xavier, looking at the large portmanteau tucked away in the shadows. “But why? Abbot’s our friend, too.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll see.”

  The twins looked at each other, a whole conversation in a glance. Xander nodded and handed Xavier his pocketknife.

  “Hold the candle over here.” Xavier dropped to his knees and before Brother Christopher had a chance to be amazed, the boy popped the lock open.

  Brother Christopher listened for a second. Dead quiet except for their breathing.

  “All right,” he said, swinging the lid open.

  Everything was there in the trunk, except perhaps a toothbrush. The abbot was clearly prepared to travel. Which was odd, as he was already away. Why would he have another trunk?

  Brother Christopher removed the sectional trays and compartments, being careful not to disturb the contents. He reached the lower level. Riffling through a layer of decidedly non-clerical attire, he found what he was looking for.

  “Now tell me if you think the abbot’s your friend.” He pushed aside the clothes to reveal two black cloth sacks. Pulling the first bag out he dropped it into Xavier’s hands. Remarkably heavy. The boy loosened the strings to see, but they could all hear the sound of the gold coins clinking inside.

  “And here’s the other.”

  He tossed the second bag to Xander. Opening it, even in the dim light they could see the emeralds glow like new leaves.

  They were speechless.

  “Now put them back,” whispered Brother Christopher.

  “But why would he want to?” muttered Xavier, tears in his eyes.

  Brother Christopher hurriedly stacked the last of the items in order and quietly closed the trunk. “I’m sorry, Xav.”

  “Maybe it’s got something to do with his brother coming?” said Xander.

  “What!” asked Brother Christopher. “What did you—where did you hear that?”

  Xander pointed to a letter on the desk, under the paperweight.

  “From the abbot’s brother. He says he’s coming to visit.”

  Brother Christopher carefully opened the letter. He scanned it quickly, looked utterly confused, read it again.

  Shaking his head he put the letter back in the envelope and tucked it under the glass paperweight.

  “That might explain it,” he muttered.

  “Explain what?” said Xavier.

  “I’ll tell you later. Put everything back the way it was and get out of here.”

  • • •

  On their way out they nearly collided with Halick who was standing just outside the door.

  “Good God, Halick!” whispered Xander. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

  “Time for bed, buddy,” said Xavier. “Come with us, we’ll tuck you in.”

  But Halick just shook his head, picked up his broom and went back to sweeping by the light of the half moon.

  The Abbot’s Tale

  1908

  The train came to a halt a half-mile before the station at Saint Roche. The snow had come early, with the leaves still on the trees, bringing down an old linden onto the tracks.

  The two men in the first-class car stepped down from the train, continuing their conversation while they stretched and smoked a cigarette. One of the men was in monk’s robes.

  When it looked as if the train might soon be continuing they stepped into the woods to relieve themselves.

  • • •

  Nicolas Paul didn’t mean to kill the monk.

  That is to say, he hadn’t planned on such a thing when he found himself sharing a train compartment with the man in a black robe and wooden cross, attire he was all too familiar with, having u
ntil recently worn it himself.

  They liked each other right off. The brother was excited and apprehensive about his new posting—he was to be made abbot. He was delighted to have someone who would listen to his concerns, someone refreshingly knowledgeable regarding the ebb and flow of life in an abbey.

  Nicolas Paul knew he had the kind of face that put people at their ease: eyes as blue as the sea, and a manner that invited confidence. At first, he listened merely to pass the long night on the uncrowded train. But as the French countryside slipped past the black windows, he saw a way to slip the noose that had been drawing close about him for the last six months.

  As they pooled their bread and cheese and chocolate to make a late supper, the brother had explained: to chose a successor from outside the abbey was unusual but not unheard of. Near death, the abbot of the Gentiana Abbey had selected his friend and colleague to fill his shoes, assuring his flock that they would grow to admire the brother as much as he had.

  “How exciting,” said Nicolas Paul, passing what was left of the wine. “Of course, I could see how that would make you nervous. So . . . you’ve never met anyone at the abbey?”

  “Not a soul,” said the brother.

  • • •

  Most of the passengers were asleep when the fallen tree was removed and the train started up again. Only a couple of people had noticed the two men smoking and talking in the cold air. No one saw the two sets of footprints heading into the woods. And no one took note that only one came back to the train.

  Chapter 31

  Spring 1868

  Coal sat in a back pew of the Cathedral of Reims looking up at the morning light illuminating the arched ceiling so far above. If he squinted, he could imagine it was a mile high. The choir and orchestra, a couple of hundred strong, filled the immense space with Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis. A serendipity. He had been crossing the square on his way to . . . somewhere, and he’d heard the sound of singing. A pair of trumpets as he entered a side door, and then a thundering explosion of voices knocked him back on his heels, nearly stopping his heart.