by A. W. Exley
The colonel lifts his hand. As he drops it to his side, he yells, "Advance!"
I clamber out of the trench, men on either side of me, and others rush to fill my spot behind me. Colonel Jeffrey is to my left. Yells of the men around me break the silence. I open my mouth but no sound emerges. My mute screams sound only in my head, competing for space between my ears with my ragged breathing.
Apart from an occasional shot, there is no return fire and it unnerves me. Rumour has it the Germans are low on ammunition. They don't want to waste bullets on targets too far away and will hold their fire until we are closer.
Then the whistles start again. A different pitch this time compared to the shiny metal one hanging from a button on Colonel Jeffrey's uniform. The flash of silver fixes my gaze. I can't look away. My feet stop moving as my mind focuses on the whistle. It must have bounced free of his pocket, but all I can think is ‘how does he keep it clean?’ Most whistles are battered, dented, and dull. But not Colonel Jeffrey's whistle. It looks as new as the day it was issued to him.
My brain nags me about this particular shrill cry, and then the chill runs down my spine. The barrage has restarted, but whose? Theirs or ours? One shell looks much like another as it hurtles toward you. All along the line men start shouting, "Incoming!"
Then it rains upon us.
Earth that should have been under my feet rises up as a solid wall around me. Shrapnel from the shells and huge wooden splinters from God only knows where fly through the air and slice men open. Hot metal has a distinctive, sharp smell, and I wrinkle my nose. Overlaid is the sweet tang of blood. The shouts of men turn into screams and cries of agony around as they are butchered, guts ripped apart, heads exploded and limbs severed.
I can't move. My feet are frozen to the ground. Only my mouth hangs open, to protect my ears and hearing like they taught us. I can't even scream. The soldier next to me drops to his knees, a surprised look on his face as viscera spills into his outstretched hands where shrapnel carved him open from navel to breastbone.
Death protects me while it strikes down those around me. Am I to be tortured for eternity, left alive as everyone else is slain as punishment for—what? What have I done to deserve this? Then my mind wanders. I would need a palette of watercolours to draw his intestines. People don't realise the array of colours they have hidden on the inside, not until enemy fire allows your entrails to slither free on the ground. Only then do you see the subtle blues and the olive greens peeking through rich reds.
"Henry!" Colonel Jeffrey yells at me. "For God's sake Henry, get down!"
He sounds angry, as though I have put the wrong ram in with the sheep. My mind can't comprehend what I have done wrong. Would he know why Death is punishing me? Colonel Jeffrey's face screws up as he yells and throws himself at me.
Then another scream explodes beside us and the world goes black. I squeeze my eyes shut. My ears ring as though I stuck my head in a bell and used myself as the gong. Bit by bit the clang fades to a buzz. I crack my eyes open, but the world has tilted on its axis. Where once I saw murky sky is now a view of dirt.
How did I end up on the ground? My head reels and my body lurches as though a rough ocean were under me, and yet I am lying on the ground. Around me plumes of dirt rain upward, jumping toward the sky as the barrage continues. Everything is muted, like my head is underwater. As I turn my head, my cheek grazes stones and dirt. Colonel Jeffrey is prone beside me.
But he's so still. Blood covers his face. His eyes are open, but he neither blinks nor moans when I reach out and shake his arm. The pupils in his eyes enlarge until they swallow the iris. He stares, but it’s a black, vacant gaze.
Oh, God. I've killed him.
I've killed Sir Jeffrey.
Awareness returned slowly, like swimming upward through dark water. Light filtered through first and then shapes coalesced into things I recognised, like a stand of trees off to my right, or steady Cossimo under me. How did I get there on that hilltop? Cold sweat trickled down the back of my shirt. Time had slipped again.
Last thing I remembered, I was sitting in the kitchen when the kettle boiled.
Below, in the shelter of the hill, sat Serenity House. The old house called to me, or perhaps I sought to resume a life I never led.
Once upon a time I dreamed of donning a uniform and serving there. Ella used to tease me, saying I had pretensions above my station. I think it made her angry that I didn't want to spend my life at Sir Jeffrey's small estate. But I had larger ambitions. Why be a farm hand when I could stride the halls of Serenity House? Then instead of the Leithfield livery, I put on khaki and served my country. And my world exploded, shattering into dark shards that rent my mind.
Serenity House represented a time before I knew what it looked like when your comrade exploded next to you or dropped to his knees clutching his innards.
At the foot of the hill, the warm, honey stone of the building soothed my mind. The panic receded as I sat on the horse and simply stared. The house was an anchor in the landscape. Throughout time, the local lord had always lived here in one fancy building or other. It was a permanent part of the Somerset countryside. The one thing bigger and better than all of us small locals put together.
The sun angled lower in the sky and I squinted up. How long had I lost? It could be minutes or hours. Staring at the sweeping estate made me imagine its invisible wings spread over the region to protect smaller homes. There was somewhere else I needed to see before I rode back. Somewhere I had to show my face now I had returned, if only once.
I put my heel to Cossimo and we cantered over the fields, heading away from where Lady Jeffrey held sway.
We rode west.
The tower came into view first, rising far above the surrounding fields. A low hillock encircled one side and protected the collection of buildings. A hundred years ago a mad lord built the tower on a whim, so his bride could pretend to await a prince in the circular room. When I left for war, it held a very real captive. One locked away by her mad parents.
She asked me to help her escape and I refused. God help me, how could I when the world had descended into war and madness? I wanted to know she was safe. That she would remain untouched by the horror unfolding elsewhere. And perhaps a tiny selfish part of me wanted to know she would still be there when I returned. I imagined it would only be a matter of a few short months. We all did. None of us predicted the war would take four years of our lives.
Would she ever forgive me? Never in that time had she written. Not a single word. I wrote her every week and silence was my only reply.
Mr Morris had purchased the solid tower and little house long before my memory started. Then over the years he set about building the high stone wall around the immediate buildings and a small acreage. Within its embrace, Mrs Morris planted the fruit trees and laid out the enormous vegetable garden that ensured their self-sufficiency.
A barn and larger paddocks housed their herd of sheep and cattle. As idyllic as they appeared, the tower and surrounding compound were Hazel's prison. Her parents didn't allow her any contact with the world beyond. Even in our rural community they kept themselves apart. Convinced the end of the world was near, they hunkered down in isolation to keep their most valuable possession safe. Hazel.
The tall, narrow tower had a series of arrow slits at different heights and a large window at the top. With no obvious door, one could truly believe the occupant could not leave except by climbing out the high window. But there was a door at the very base, tucked against the high wall. What idiot would construct a tower without an entrance? When you knew of the secret staircase within, you realised the arrow slits spiralled like the steps.
Once, Hazel used to drop a rope ladder and I would climb up to visit. We would read high above the ground in her tower, enact plays, shoot rabbits in the meadow, or plot her escape.
A glint of late afternoon sunlight caught something at the window. It flashed silver, not golden like her hair. A crack rent the air and next t
o us, a small sod of dirt puffed up into the air. Panic flared in my chest for a moment and my fingers tightened on the reins. Only the solid presence of Cossimo stopped me from taking flight.
I was home in England, not on the front.
She was a crack shot. The girl I knew would never miss unless on purpose. Not that she would risk harming Cossimo. She sent a message in the shot.
Hazel was still alive.
And she still hated me.
3
October, 1918
* * *
I thought that now I had returned, life would revert to normal. Perhaps my mind would heal, my frozen vocal cords would relinquish their grip on words, and I would speak. I was wrong. Again. Events didn't even allow me time to settle back into my old life. War followed us home.
Magda fell ill first. Lady Jeffrey's high-pitched screams reached my room out in the barn. She accused the cook of being lazy and threatened to throw her out if dinner wasn't served exactly at six pm. Then the sickness claimed Charlotte.
By the time we saw the news in the paper, the pandemic had swept across Europe and crashed into England. If the farm had possessed a moat, Lady Jeffrey would have pulled up the drawbridge and shut out the world. And us. Leaving us to starve and rot in the dirt.
From September 1918 the pandemic first reached out for the soldiers and then followed their path home, but the government kept it quiet so as not to spark a panic. I didn't need Lady Jeffrey to point an accusing finger and banish me from the house; I went of my own accord. Only a few weeks passed before a new role settled over me. I became the rat, harbinger of the Black Death, hiding in the dark and spreading pestilence. I sat in my room and stared at my hands, searching for the mark of death on me. Had I brought this upon the people I cared about?
A soft knock at the door made me look up. I opened my mouth but nothing emerged. Not even the timid squeak of a tiny field mouse. I certainly couldn't muster the hiss of a ferocious rat.
The door opened a fraction and Ella's face peered around the corner. "Can I come in?"
I nodded and my gaze tracked her progress across the room. She picked up the chair by the window and moved it closer to the bed, facing me, before she sat down.
"It's not your fault, Henry. Whatever is spreading the influenza, it's not you."
I frowned at her and pursed my lips. Tell that to Lady Jeffrey, I mouthed, hoping she would understand.
"Magda and Charlotte will recover. We will see to that." She said the words but doubt crept into her gaze.
None of us knew who would live and who would succumb. Why would death spare us, when across Europe and England the bodies mounted?
Ella clenched her hands and then relaxed them by smoothing down her skirt. "I'm going to divide my time between here and Serenity House. They are taking in the locals who are sick and it's not like she will miss me. Elizabeth has practically boarded up her parlour to keep us all out."
I should help too. The war gave me some experience as an orderly when I transferred to the field hospital. It nearly brought a laugh to my tongue; I’d finally reach my goal of serving at Serenity House. Except I would be changing bed linen and lugging corpses, not dishing out soup with a pure silver spoon.
Ella reached out and gripped my hand but let go when I jumped. "I think you should go check on the Morrises and make sure they know to be vigilant for any symptoms."
I looked up sharply and shook my head. Even in a community made up of isolated farms, George and Rachel Morris kept to themselves more than most and never participated in village life. They locked themselves away in their corner of the countryside and were largely self-sufficient. They would be fine.
"Go, Henry. You have to talk to her eventually." Ella's voice softened.
I tapped my throat and then spread my hands. Even if I possessed a voice, what could I say? Sorry I left you shut in a tower for four long years? Did you never reply to any of my letters because you're really angry?
"You know what I mean. She used to be my friend, too, and I'm worried. If one of them falls ill, who will ever know? At least check they have enough supplies to last while the pandemic rages; there is little to be had in the village at the moment."
I hated it when Ella made sense; it proved she was smarter than me. Having said her piece, she rose and dropped a kiss on my cheek before slipping back through my door.
Riding out to the Morris farm was a stupid idea. The first time Hazel laid eyes on me in four years, she had shot at me. She might not miss the second time around. I argued back and forth in my mind the whole time as I saddled up Cossimo and rode west. I tried not to care what happened behind the high stone wall Mr Morris built.
Except I did.
Even as a young boy, I worried about Hazel and her strange parents. Her attendance at school was sporadic and I often rode out to find her. When the Titanic hit an iceberg in 1912, the Morrises viewed the national tragedy as a portent of doom. In their eyes, God struck down the unsinkable ocean liner and sent so many innocent lives to the bottom of the frigid sea. Mr and Mrs Morris took it as a sign that the end was closer than they thought. They shut their door and tried to keep the world at bay.
I had to knock on that door and tell them of a pandemic spreading beyond their wall. The phrase adding fuel to the fire repeated in my head. Mr Morris would probably add an extra couple of feet to the height of his wall.
The fundamental problem with being a coward: I didn't know what to do in a sticky situation. Other men would charge right up and knock, confident they would be welcomed. I agonised over whether the faithful horse would find his way home if I were shot. I kept my gaze on the ground in front of Cossimo's feet as we approached the tower and its encompassing compound. If she shot me, I didn't want to see it coming. Let her simply strike me and for it be over with. Except the tower remained silent. No crack came from the arrow slits.
Dismounting, I looped Cossimo's reins over a rail out front and stared at the thick door. The weathered timbers looked as though they had withstood a hundred years or more of raging winters. Perhaps they had, as Mr Morris bought the doors from a derelict Abbey.
Mustering up a thimbleful of courage, I did the only thing I could think to do. I knocked.
Cossimo and I stared at each other for several long, silent moments. Then metal squawked as a small square in the door opened and a lined face peered through.
"Who is it?"
If Ella was so smart why didn't she foresee this particular problem? I met a tired gaze and hoped Mr Morris remembered me. At the same time I hoped he didn't remember me, since I used to scale the wall and visit his daughter. Those weren't exactly sanctioned visits and on the rare occasion he caught me, he tossed me out the door.
The visual standoff continued, then the tired eyes widened. "Henry? Is that you, Henry Evans? Whatever do you want?"
The face disappeared and the porthole slammed shut. Then came the groan of an old lock protesting as a heavy key turned. The hinges creaked as the door opened enough to let a skinny youth through. At least I hoped it was an invitation. Only as the door crashed to behind me did I realise I should have stayed out. By entering the confines I might bring the flu with me, perhaps caught in my hair or clothing. I swallowed and squeezed my eyes shut, forcing down the panic that threatened to rise as my mind cast a black shadow over this place. What have I done?
"It is you, lad." He took a step back, perhaps thinking I was some apparition.
I couldn't tell if he was disappointed to see me or not, but his surprise gave me a chance to deliver my news.
"Rachel, come look. Henry is back from the war and apparently still alive," Mr Morris yelled over his shoulder to an invisible companion.
His wife would be somewhere within the oasis of green. The wall enclosed nearly two acres comprised of a bountiful vegetable garden and orchard. Chickens ran underfoot, uncaring of the danger of being trodden on. Each bird was intent on its own quest. Mrs Morris also kept a garden of flowers and herbs for traditional reme
dies, and the air buzzed with lazy bees.
"You know we do not encourage visitors, Henry. What do you want?" Mr Morris towered over me, arms packed with muscles made even bigger by the physical work he did. Once he was a stone mason and over the years he enlarged the cottage and built the daunting wall. Decades of handling rough surfaces calloused his palms, and the sun and wind etched his face in deep lines. He was not a man you wanted to anger.
I pulled the newspaper from my pocket and thrust it at him. The headline was an attention grabber. Fatal pandemic rages across England.
The paper devoted its entirety to the pandemic, its path around the globe, doctors speculating where it came from, and suggestions on how to avoid infection. Nowhere was safe; even the furthest corner of the British Empire at the bottom of the globe in New Zealand battled the disease.
His eyes widened as he looked from me to the paper and back again. Taking a few steps backwards, he dropped onto a bench seat at the edge of the neatly regimented orchard. The chickens scratched around the trunks and two large pigs lounged under an apple tree, waiting for windfall fruit.
I stood at ease and waited. My hands clasped behind my back, my gaze set on the middle distance. The stance eased my mind, the position I fell back on when I didn't know what to do with myself. How many hours had I stood like this, wanting to turn tail and run, while some officer outlined the latest suicidal plan for the ordinary soldiers? Too many to count. The numbers flowed into each other and became an ocean that drowned me.
"This pestilence is outside our door and you stepped over our threshold without a word of warning?"
The words were a bolt of lightning through my brain and I broke the watery surface of memory with a gasp. Mr Morris spoke quietly, but simmering rage lit his words. He protected his family from the savage world beyond, but the diseased rat had crawled through a hole in the wall.
