Silent

by David Mellon

  High in the branches of an apple tree a bluebird sang, perched upon the handlebars of a bicycle, no doubt relocated by the blast. The bird, late to be this far north in November, was jewel-like against the gray sky. It tweeted once more and was off.

  It took Adi a while to figure how to get the bike down, sure that it would be too damaged to ride.

  The tires were a bit low but otherwise it was in good working order. It even had a little basket in the front to tie her things onto.

  This was more like it. Not as fast as a truck, perhaps, but more reliable and better at getting along the cratered roads. Most of all, she was in charge.

  • • •

  On day four, just past noon, she rode through a deserted little town. Montiers-le- . . . something, read the still-remaining piece of the sign. Other than shelling the place, the Germans had left most of it intact.

  As she pedaled through the square, she saw what appeared to be a smartly dressed man without a head in the back of a bombed-out shop. She circled around for another look.

  A mannequin stood in the rubble of a men’s clothing store. She stared at it for a moment, and then leaned her bike up against what was left of the doorway.

  • • •

  The statue of the beautiful boy riding a dolphin had long ago been blasted to bits. The pieces of marble lay under water in the fountain in the center of the town square. The week’s rains had filled it to the brim.

  She put her stack of new clothes down on the pavement: a white shirt, trousers, a suit vest, and an overcoat.

  There were bees on the label of her beautiful new bar of soap. She looked at it for a moment, then unwrapped it and placed it on the edge of the fountain. With a last look around, she began to peel off her uniform, piece by piece, until she stood there shivering, naked as a baby.

  In she went.

  The water was so cold it couldn’t have hurt more to have a layer of skin removed. That was about right, considering how long it had been since she’d had anything like a proper bath.

  Gasping for breath, she washed and scrubbed her skin and scalp till her fingers ached. When she couldn’t stand the cold for another second, she leapt out and dried herself with the tablecloth she’d found in the cafe.

  While she was buttoning her excellent new vest, she glanced down at the filthy pile of uniform she’d cast off. Like a chrysalis it lay, still retaining her form. The memento of her last three years. Goodbye and thank you, Monsieur Goux.

  Picking up the watch, she put it—the yoke—back around her neck.

  She found a rucksack and transferred only as much of her kit as she thought she’d need. The pockets of her new vest would do for most of her smaller medical gear. Clamp and folding scalpel here, stitching needle and gauze there. There’d be no more lugging about gas masks or extra pairs of boots.

  She did keep her beautiful little “Ruby” M1914 pistol. She’d never once had to use it. But she didn’t need anyone to tell her it was a dangerous world out there. She buckled her holster under her overcoat.

  Standing in the sunshine, she saw her reflection in what was left of a shop window and took what felt like the first deep breath she’s had in years. She felt so light. She was so light—she imagined she might lift right off the ground.

  Climbing back onto her bike at the edge of town, she saw the whole valley stretched out before her. Down the hill she went as if she were flying.

  • • •

  Coal stood in the shade of the laurel tree on the arching stone bridge, and thought about crow’s feet.

  That was one of the names for the little multi-pronged metal spikes he had ruining the pockets of his overcoat. They were called caltrops, or cheval traps, or crowsfeet, which they resembled. They’d been around for centuries, good for stopping soldiers, horses, camels, vehicles, what have you. The question was whether or not he would be throwing the nasty little spikes onto the downward slope of the bridge, where they would be hard to avoid.

  It was a cockeyed thing to do—cheating, pretty much. And he never cheated.

  “Well, hardly ever,” he said, wincing at the sunlight glaring off the water beneath the bridge. He dug around until he found his tinted lenses and put them on.

  “Hasn’t she cheated? Without her little helpers, she’d have ended up in a ditch somewhere, a long time ago.”

  There was one fewer of those helpers now. This made Coal’s head ache a little less.

  Delicately, he removed the caltrops from his pockets, placing them on the moss-covered side of the bridge. It was almost impossible to get them out without pricking his fingertips. There was nothing left in the pocket but a pack of Portuguese cigarettes and a couple of gold coins.

  “Chances are,” he said, tossing the spikes onto the bridge one after another, “on a bicycle, she’ll not even hit one of them.”

  • • •

  George and the lads nearly made it to headquarters without incident.

  Crossing the river Meuse, only a half-dozen kilometers from the camp, they ran across enemy soldiers—deserters, probably. Or remnants of the eastern front.

  They thought they’d gotten clear, until Augustin’s mare stumbled.

  The bullet missed the front edge of the saddle and Augustin’s leg, passing into the animal’s chest. She dropped gently to her knees and lay down as if she were sleeping.

  They made it back—again, on two horses, Augustin cursing the whole way.

  After they’d given their final report, Augustin checked to make sure he had his billfold and, without another word, hopped a truck into the city of Soissons.

  Three hours later he was back, pulling up in the most rundown, beat-up, bullet-shot automobile any of them had ever seen. He wouldn’t say how much he’d paid for this prize, but they could tell from the look on his face that it had been a fortune.

  He didn’t care—said he’d have paid twice that to not ever have to be responsible for another horse.

  Thomas suggested that they get a good night’s sleep and start fresh in the morning for Alorainn. They argued the point for a moment and then started throwing their things into the back seat.

  They submitted their furlough papers, collected all the odds and ends that had been accumulating at headquarters, grabbed all the rations they could get their hands on—and they were on the road.

  • • •

  They headed south all night and half the morning, before they turned east. Then the car broke down.

  It took the rest of the day merely to find someone who could work on a valveless automobile and most of the next to find spark plugs for it.

  They sat about the mechanic’s yard, talking and playing bocce ball with the man’s sons.

  Deciding to use the nearly inedible dry rations as prizes, Thomas dug about through the pile of clutter that had ended up on the floor of the back seat.

  “Hello!” he said, holding up a little leather satchel. “Where did this come from?”

  Augustin leaned in.

  “Our mail! That’s what Henri was going on about. It must have gotten thrown in with all our other rubbish.”

  As they feasted on a sublime cassoulet made by the mechanic’s wife, they went through the bag.

  There was a stack for Augustin, a few for Thomas. But most of the letters were for George. Aunts and uncles and cousins, appealing to him, the tone becoming more and more urgent, to return and soon. Every page was an arrow to his heart.

  Augustin emptied the satchel, pulling out the last small letter from the bottom of the sack. It was addressed to Thomas.

  “And what have we here?” said Augustin. “Nice handwriting. And not from Alorainn. Could it be . . . ?”

  George stopped reading for a second, snatched the letter and tossed it to Thomas.

  • • •

  By the time the mechanic’s wife brought out the glazed apple tart, George and Augustin were thoroughly despondent. Thomas had a different expression.

  “Monsieur,” said the wife to the young man, �
��are you unwell?”

  The rest of the table turned his way. Thomas did look as if he’d swallowed his tongue.

  “Um,” he said and closed his mouth, looking hard at the letter.

  “You okay?” George asked.

  “Uh, huh,” Thomas managed.

  “Out with it Thomas Hast,” said Augustin. “We’ve got enough bad news.”

  “I think,” Thomas said, faintly, “I found Xander and Xavier.”

  “What!” said George. “You figured out the riddle?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Chapter 33

  Before she hit the ground, Adi had been having a wonderful daydream as she pedaled along the country road. Sparkling silver platters, spread across the library table, all those years ago. A meal she dreamed of often, and bitterly regretted not finishing. The onion bhaji, the tikka massala, the alu gobhi, all the dishes steaming in the afternoon sun. Instead of being alone, though, she was there with George and Thomas and the boys, all tucking in and laughing.

  The caltrop slashed her front tire like butter, jamming right through the metal rim of the wheel. The bike went down. Adi hit the ground with a shriek as another of the spikes sliced into her shoulder.

  She lay there afraid to move, afraid the pain could be worse, though at the moment that seemed unlikely. The culprits, ugly little tetrahedron-shaped bundles of spikes, were right before her eyes, on the downward side of the bridge.

  She was always signing to wounded soldiers—breathe. She understood more than ever why that was so difficult.

  When her head stopped spinning, she lifted herself up, careful not to roll onto other spikes on the ground.

  It could have been worse. She’d landed, for the most part, in the track of some vehicle—a truck, from the size of the tread—that had come through before her and swept up many of the caltrops. Sure enough, she saw the trail swerve from that point; a gash ran along the side of the stone bridge, showed where the truck had hit.

  She looked down. The damned thing was jutting out of her arm. Only her coat and shirt sleeve had kept it from making it all the way to the bone. She leaned over and picked up one of the others from the ground. The spikes had no barbs, thank God. She had seen ones that did, like horrible fishhooks; there was no way to get them out without tearing the flesh.

  She took hold of the thing, about the size of a small plum, and with one sure movement, pulled it from her arm. The point was slick with blood. At least it wasn’t rusty.

  She slid out of her coat and rolled her sleeve up, took her brand-new handkerchief from her pocket and held it tight against the puncture, cursing the evil scoundrel that threw the things down.

  • • •

  She cleaned the wound in the stream and bandaged her arm, saying a prayer against tetanus. After clearing the rest of the spikes from the bridge, she looked to her bicycle.

  The front tire was shredded.

  She looked up the road. The tires of that truck would have been damaged. Where did it go?

  Just over the hill, she saw the roofs of a couple of houses. She decided to push the bicycle at least that far before she gave up on it. She wrenched the last caltrop out of the wheel and put it with the others beneath a rock. She pulled her overcoat back on, placed her rucksack in the basket, and started rolling the bike toward the village.

  • • •

  Even before she’d come around the curve, she heard the men squabbling. She spotted what could be a garage.

  Through the open gate, she saw a couple of men under the hood of a truck. It looked as if a wheel had been removed from the front passenger side.

  Discretion was in order. She might not much like the people driving this truck, who hadn’t even bothered to pick up the rest of the caltrops on the bridge. The godawful ache in her arm wasn’t helping her disposition, and the blood had come through the bandage and ruined her beautiful new shirtsleeve.

  Leaning the bicycle against a fence post, she took her pistol out of her holster, checking, as Doc had taught her, to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber.

  Running across the street, she stole up alongside a high wall. A few feet from the gate, she heard the argument resumed. Something about the inferiority of French automobiles.

  She took a quick peek around the corner.

  A couple of men were standing around a rabbit cage, smoking and talking. A couple of others worked on the wheel.

  It seemed normal enough.

  Or maybe not.

  Next to the rabbits, Adi spotted an old woman, looking like someone’s grandmother. She was tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth.

  A scrape of gravel behind her! Something dropped over her head, she couldn’t move her arms. She was shoved from behind.

  In through the gate she went, tripping on the cobblestones, down onto her backside. A tire around her midsection.

  She looked up to see a black man towering above her.

  He leaned down and snatched Adi’s pistol from her hand. It was like a child’s toy in his.

  “This is why I couldn’t be takin’ my nap?” he said. “ ’Cause you thought midgets’d be sneaking up on us?”

  More men of various sizes and colors sauntered over to have a look. They appeared to have been either French or American soldiers, but were all in the process of whittling away their uniforms.

  “Well, what have we here?” said a handsome Yank with blonde slicked-back hair.

  “Don’t know, Freddie,” said a man with a narrow face and doleful eyes. “This place’s not as empty as you thought.”

  “I guess not, Joe.” Freddie squatted down to get a better look at their prisoner. “This one’s sure not from these parts.

  Yet another American—this one with a face like a ferret—smirked up at the big black man. “Look, Thibodaux, it’s your little brother.” He broke up laughing. Everyone ignored him. Freddie looked at the blood trickling down Adi’s arm.

  “Looks like you had a little trouble, son. What you up to here?”

  Adi shook her head and struggled to get free of the tire.

  “We don’t have time for this,” said another Frenchman, still wearing most of his uniform. He looked down at Adi with eyes like a wolf. “Do him, and let’s get back on the road.”

  “We’re not going anywhere, Nantes, ’til you finish patching the tire,” said Freddie. He nodded to Thibodaux.

  With no more effort than lifting a cat, the big man picked Adi up and stood her on the ground. The tire dropped to her feet.

  “Yes, yes,” said Nantes, pushing Adi aside. He took the tire and turned back to his repair table. The other men did likewise.

  Freddie sat back on his haunches, studying their guest. “Huh,” he mused.

  Joe looked over at him. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Depends on what you’re thinking,” Freddie said.

  “I’m thinking that that boy is small.”

  Freddie stood up, a couple of heads taller than Adi. “Then, I guess, we’re thinking the same thing. You better tell the Frenchies we’re going back to plan one.”

  Joe blew out his cheeks. “Nantes ain’t gonna be too happy ’bout that.”

  “Yeah, well, what is he ever happy about? I’m not so good at climbing walls, and I don’t think he is neither—despite his blather.”

  He looked down at Adi. “You don’t talk a lot, do you, son?”

  • • •

  Adi was furious.

  She had her coat. All the rest was left behind.

  She sat on the hard front seat of the truck, wedged snugly in between Freddie and Thibodaux, Joe behind the wheel. The suspension was shot, but it didn’t seem to discourage the man from barreling down the back roads as fast as the old army vehicle could go. She could only imagine how bad it was for the seven men in the back under the canvas. “The Frenchies,” as they were referred to, though they appeared to include a Russian and the shifty-looking American they called Ferret.

  How could she have been so fool
ish? Going in there, with that little pistol. She’d never even fired it at anyone! She was lucky to be alive.

  She wasn’t sure why, though. Something to do with where they were heading. A robbery, from the sound of it. A tiny window to be squeezed through, maybe?

  The good news was that—so far—they appeared to be heading, at least roughly, in the right direction, and that whatever they had in mind, it was going to happen tonight.

  She tilted her head a little toward the mud splattered windscreen. She could make out Orion’s Belt low in the sky.

  “Damnedest thing, ain’t it?” said the big man on her right with a low rumble. “How they got a whole ’nother sky over here.”

  Adi glanced at him and nodded. After all this time, though, it was hard to remember how exactly it was different.

  Freddie took out a little flask, handed it around. To be amiable, Adi took a small sip. It tasted like gasoline.

  “That boy Nantes’s wired pretty tight, ain’t he?” said Thibodaux, loud enough to get over the sound of the engine but not enough to be heard by anyone in the back.

  “Yeah, for a minute there,” said Joe, “looked like he was gonna shoot the old lady.”

  “Yeah,” replied Freddie. “It did, didn’t it.”

  “I guess he got his reasons for being sore at the mademoiselles, right now,” said Thibodaux. “But that lady was nice. No call to be scaring her that way.”

  Adi wondered which other mademoiselle he was referring to.

  “She’ll be okay,” said Freddie, patting the big man on the leg. “I doubt being tied up in a chair for an hour was the worst thing that happened to her the last four years.”

  At least these guys didn’t want to kill an old lady. Adi sighed; there was only so much comfort she could take in the idea that not all the men she was with were murderers.

  Zooming through an intersection, the headlights on the truck flashed for an instant on a sign. Had it said Gentiana Abbey? She banged her boot on the floorboard.

  Freddie looked over.

  “We just got us a little business to take care of,” he said, “and then you can get back to yours.”

  She sat in the dark, squeezed tight between the men, hoping to God this might be true. But there was no way of knowing if he meant what he said. And any way you figured it, the Americans were three against the seven men in the back. She seriously doubted if they would be so agreeable when the time came.