by A. W. Exley
At the stand of trees, I dismounted and left Cossimo to snooze. I sat on the damp grass and stared at the stone structure in the fading light. Tall and thin, it was an accusing hand pointing at the heavens. Or maybe a fist, holding Hazel tight in its grasp.
My immediate problem was how to gain access. The front door and back gate were out of the question. The Morrises would be expecting that and I suspected both would be locked and guarded. Soft light rose from the compound, and high in the tower, yellow flared as Hazel lit a lantern.
Which meant she was up there. Did she see me, down here in the encroaching dark? I could climb the wall and hope to make the recessed door at the base before her parents saw me. If I were a dashing type, I would scale the wall and climb in through her window.
A silhouette appeared in the window and then something tumbled out. Thin and narrow, it dropped down, as though she had dangled a long plait of hair to a waiting prince. Curiosity aroused, I stood and ran across the paddock. I kept my head low in case someone decided to start firing. Hazel might find it amusing.
I reached the bottom of the wall and looked up. The fairy-tale plait of hair was a length of rope. Grabbing the end I gave a tug. It seemed firm. I wished she had thrown down the rope ladder of a lifetime ago. Perhaps her father had found and destroyed it lest she escaped in the night.
Rope climbing was never my favourite activity, and the window was such a long way off the ground. Needs must, though, I told myself. Spitting into my palms, I jumped high and grabbed on. Hand over hand, I hauled myself up. Thankfully my boots found the odd purchase on the rough stone to help my ascent. The approaching dark also helped; it meant I couldn't see the ground below me as I climbed higher.
By the time I made the window, my arms burned as though I held them over an open flame and had the consistency of jelly. Hazel leaned on the window frame, her fingers playing with the end of her plait. The rope ran from the ledge back into the room and was secured around an iron ring in one wall.
Once I finally stood on firm ground, I shook the rope and frowned at her.
Ladder? I asked.
"Rats chewed it off in the middle." She dropped the plait and placed her hands behind her back. "I saw you lurking and had to improvise."
Oh. Although I wondered how rats fared living in the tower. Hazel used to hide the ladder behind a loose stone. Perhaps they lived in the walls.
I made a mental note to construct a new ladder, so I could climb the tower without risking my neck. Then I rubbed my aching arms. Partly for show and partly because I wasn't sure what to do. A more confident man would pull her into an embrace and a bold character would steal a kiss, whereas I worried about getting back down. I leaned out and peered over the edge, but the winter's night swallowed the ground and it now seemed miles away.
When I turned back to the circular room, Hazel rolled her eyes at me. "Oh cheer up, the fall wouldn't kill you."
I arched an eyebrow. Perhaps she had forgotten how tall the tower was or, given the advance of winter, how solid the ground?
A slow grin spread over her face and she punched me in the arm. "It's the stop at the end that will get you."
Funny girl. Why did I like her again?
She threw her arms around me and buried her head against my chest. When she spoke, the wool of my coat muffled her voice. "I missed you."
Ah. I liked her because when she drew close, I almost believed I could be the man she deserved. The demon on my back was silent. Perhaps it didn't make the climb with me. I didn't care. I planned to enjoy every moment of time I stole without it poisoning my thoughts. There was time enough to tell her of the horrors out there in the dark.
"Henry Evans, you either put your arms around me or I will cut the rope when you are half through climbing down."
That sounded like an order and there was a comfort in obeying an order. Even if I shouldn't touch her this way. Wrong, my mind screamed. You'll contaminate her.
But I had to, just once, know what it was like to hold the sun. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. After so long apart with only my memories I needed to touch her, smell her, feel the press of her skin against me. The contact was a lit match in the yawning chasm of dark inside me. What I would give to have her see me as more than a friend.
It's hard to sniff someone and not give the game away, but I tried. A warm scent of spiced apples hit my nostrils. Mr Morris must be brewing cider from the last of the apples and the aroma clung to her hair.
"What ever will I do with you, Henry?" She lifted her head and smiled at me.
Do with me? This sounded like a trap. Everything was a trap with Hazel, though; I never could keep up with her quick thoughts.
"You are trapped in your own tower and I would set you free." She pulled back and rapped a knuckle on my chest, as though knocking on a door.
I dropped my arms and stepped away from her. I wasn't trapped. My isolation was voluntary. I needed to be removed from people so I didn't ruin more lives. When Hazel was free and living her own life far from here, she would forget all about me. I reached for my notebook and pencil. I needed to warn her what was loose outside, in case they wandered this way.
"I do quite like the silent version. Certainly reduces the number of arguments." She was never serious for long.
You have to stay within the compound. Not safe outside.
"You keep saying that, Henry, but you know I can look after myself." She read over my shoulder as I wrote.
Flu victims have come back, dug free of their graves. Attacking people.
She laughed and punched my shoulder. "And now you are making up stories to scare me. We have an agreement and you promised to help. I will stay here until spring but once I turn eighteen, I will be gone."
Ella killed one. Took its head off with her sword. He didn't bleed.
The colour drained from her face and her pink mouth made an O shape. She sat down on the sofa in front of the fire, as a frown pulled at her brows. "How is that possible? Do you mean they were buried alive?"
I blew out air as a snort. One of the few noises I could make. She was asking me? Did I look like the type who had been to college or studied medicine?
Village had captured 4. They made Ella finish them all.
"Oh, Henry. How could they?" Horror was written in her drawn face and in her wide eyes.
Exactly what I thought. How could grown men force a girl to do the job and condemn her soul?
"What does the government say? Surely they will guide us in this time?"
Another snort. They'll guide us from the safety of their underground bunkers. Or were they issuing statements from the security of estates with patrolling soldiers? What little we knew came over the wireless or scant articles in the paper telling us not to panic. But the dead had arisen. How could people not panic when the natural order of birth, life, death was turned on its head?
They said they are dead. That we need to remove the heads and burn them.
Her hand went to her mouth as she gasped. "No."
It was hard to believe, like a terrible story told to frighten children. I had trouble believing it, and I had stood there as Ella took the heads off four people. I saw that their bodies didn't bleed, that their hearts no longer pumped and yet their hands scrabbled at the dirt, searching for their heads.
I sat on the rug at her feet and stared into the fire. I saw so much during the Great War that men should never see or endure. Including when the Germans dropped their poisonous gas at Ypres and men clawed at their throats as it burned them on the inside and they drowned in their own blood. Never could I have imagined a horror such as the dead returning from their graves.
"Winter approaches and we have sufficient stores until after Christmas. Let us hope this passes as quickly as the influenza pandemic." She dropped her arms around my shoulders and leaned over me.
At least they were protected in their isolation. The only danger would be if one of the dead knocked on the door and the Morrises thought it was
a sick person needing help.
Her hand tapped on the wool of my jacket. Then her fingers ran over a lump in the fabric. "What are you carrying in your pocket?"
Before I could capture her hand, nimble fingers darted through the open buttons and pulled out the other notebook I carried.
"What's this then, that you are keeping so close?"
I jumped to my feet and lunged for the book. Some secrets were my own to carry.
Hazel leapt away and climbed on the window ledge. If I fought her there, she could tumble out the window to the ground. I clenched my hands into fists.
Give it back, I mouthed.
"Not until I discover the secret you carry." She flicked the notebook open and turned the pages. Then her hand froze and her gaze sought me out.
Not a secret, but she had discovered my shame.
"You kept drawing." Her finger slowed as she traced a scene.
A brief nod of my head. There was no point in trying to hide it. Some people read or write, finding their escape in words. Not me. I draw. Lines and shading are my adverbs and nouns. For as long as I can remember I held a pencil or piece of charcoal between my fingers, sketching what I saw before me and then embellishing.
The notebook was small and fitted into the palm of your hand. Small enough that I had carried it with me everywhere, and kept it in the opposite pocket to the photograph of Hazel. That treasure lived over my heart.
On the front, we had no real way to communicate with those back home. On active service even our letters were limited to a postcard with generic sentences and the odd gap where we could write one word. Then you signed your name, the only evidence you still lived. You couldn't pour out your heart or detail your fears when every word was monitored and censored. On rare weekend passes I’d dash off a longer letter and hope it made to her intact, without someone drawing a thick black line through every sentence. But they fell into the hands of the ultimate censor, her parents.
In that little notebook I drew scenes that burned themselves into my mind and wouldn't let go. The first day I stood at the edge of a field, my knuckles turning white on my rifle as I realised men were shooting at me. The terrifying moment when my dream of adventure shattered and exploded like the shell a few feet away. That sketch was of a boy, just turned fifteen, his eyes wide with horror as red bloomed over the chest of the soldier standing next to him.
"Oh, Henry," Hazel whispered. She jumped off the ledge and sat on the floor, her back to the wall.
I sat next to her, our shoulders touching as she thumbed through the pages.
She paused at one and her fingertip tapped the image of an officer. He stood tall, riding crop under his arm as he barked orders at the men assembled before him.
"That's Sir Jeffrey. He hasn't changed after all these years."
Yes he has. The strong, capable man who looked after us all like a shepherd watching his flock was no more. And it was my fault.
She turned the next page and I couldn't look. The boy was taller, but still lean. The rifle stretched out before him as he stood frozen on the page. His feet rooted to the ground as fear blanketed his mind. The shell hurtled through the air. Sir Jeffrey yelling "look out" as he leapt to push the lad out of the way.
"He saved you." She glanced from notebook to me.
I nodded. Obviously Sir Jeffrey saved me or I wouldn't be sitting there. Only the influenza victims could negotiate with death.
I closed my eyes and listened to the flick as she turned the page. I didn't need to look. The image was burned into my eyes. I don't even know why I made the sketches, because I would never forget. Perhaps each page was a reminder, a bead in a rosary of my personal penance.
The next sketch showed the aftermath. Sir Jeffrey prone on the ground. Blood covered his head. The hole in the ground where the shell exploded and sent dirt flying into the air. The lad sprawled on the ground where Sir Jeffrey had pushed him. His rifle underneath him now, his helmet askew, his eyes unfocused and seeing nothing.
"Did he die?" She rested her head on my shoulder.
I reached out and turned the page. Sir Jeffrey is propped up on a hospital bed. A bandage wrapped around his head. A nurse sits at his side, trying to spoon soup into his open mouth but it dribbles back out and stains a cloth tucked into the top of his pyjamas.
"Oh. He can't feed himself."
The nurses became frustrated with the amount of time it took to tend to Sir Jeffrey. They were good sorts and had no malicious intent; he simply demanded more time than the overworked nurses could offer. Wounded filled the field hospital and the top brass wanted men up and back on the front as soon as possible. I spent every spare minute sitting beside him, trickling a teaspoon of broth at a time into his mouth, hoping it would slide down his gullet.
Hazel fell silent as she studied the other sketches in the book. My war adventure reduced to moments of panic, blind fear, and utter misery. After several minutes she closed the book and handed it back to me.
Her arms slid around my waist and she held me tight. "You may have fought that war alone, Henry, but we are in this one together. I will have you talking again, even if it's just so I can yell at you to shut up."
I wished I were worthy of her. What an extraordinary woman she had grown into while I was away. That night I would draw a new picture, one in which she was mine, even if only for the shortest time.
14
All through November and December, at every opportunity, I braved the frigid night time temperatures and waited in sight of the tower for Hazel to drop the ladder. I would spend an hour or two in her company. She would read and I would sketch her profile as the moonlight caressed the planes of her face.
Christmas 1918 arrived and I was determined to be with the girl who held my heart. In double layers and with a wool cap shoved down hard on my head, Cossimo and I rode out to our familiar lookout point. I carried a bribe to console the gelding while we stood the lonely watch, a feedbag with oats. His eyes lit up as I carried it over to him and he dropped his nose into the canvas. That made it easier to slip the strap over his head. Quiet munching came from behind as I leaned against a barren tree and stared at the tower.
A puff of smoke spiralled skyward from her tower chimney. At least she would be warm as the fire threw out a good heat in the circular room. To pass the time, I imagined how the Morrises might have passed the day. Mr Morris would have slaughtered one of the fat geese that lived in the orchard. Mrs Morris would have cooked the bird in the coal range. Perhaps after a large meal they sang songs. Although if they did I was quite convinced I should have heard Mr Morris' booming voice from out here.
The mullioned window high in the tower was closed against the weather. Light played over the leaded panes, and shapes danced on the ground far below. Silly, to freeze my toes standing here, hoping she would notice me in the shadows. I should head home before the horse ran out of feed, lost interest in playing sentry with me and trotted off back to his warm stall and hay rack.
Just as I resolved to leave, the tower window was thrown open and a familiar shape appeared. She tossed something small out and I narrowed my gaze to try and track where it landed. Dried seeds heads and brittle grass puffed up into the air where it hit. Locking my vision onto the spot, I ran across the paddock to investigate.
Back and forth I searched, until a pale glint caught my eye. Bending over, I picked up what appeared to be a rock masquerading as a Christmas present. The heavy missile was wrapped in paper and tied with string. What was Hazel up to? Undoing the string, I pulled off the paper. A message scrawled on the inside read:
Come on up before you freeze.
More movement caught my eye as she dropped the rope ladder out the window. It would be rude to refuse her invitation and my fingers were going numb. While we only ever saw a few days of snow over winter, the temperature seemed low enough that it might happen any day. I glanced back at Cossimo but he seemed content with the feedbag. For now. Decision made, I ran for the ladder and pulled myself up.<
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"Merry Christmas, Henry," she said as soon as I clambered over the window ledge.
Hazel reached out and pulled the window shut against the cold wind. She turned with a mischievous glint in her gaze. "What did you get me?"
A knife skewered my gut. How did women do that? One question could slice you open faster than a direct hit from a machine gun. I had nothing. I was never sure if she would see me outside and I was content with knowing she was near, or watching her shadow against the glass.
"I'm teasing." A wide smile crossed her face.
Phew. She took my hand and pulled me over to the sofa she had dragged in front of the fire. The cushions were overstuffed and uneven, but you could sink into the thing and it had always been comfortable, even if ugly to look at. We sat down and propped our feet up on the footstool.
"You could tell me a story?" she said.
There she went again. At times I think women view men the same way a cat surveys a mouse. Something to toy with, bat around and maybe chew its head off. Even when I could talk, words were never my thing. I certainly couldn't tell her a story.
Hazel reached under a fat cushion and pulled out a sketchbook and a pencil. "Please?"
I cracked the pad open to a blank page and rested it on my knee. Confused emotions pulsed through me and I tried to sort through them as I flicked the pencil between my fingers. This woman constantly threw me off balance and at the same time, peered straight into my cold soul.
What offering could I conjure with pencil and paper to compare with the gift of her companionship? An idea sprouted in my mind and I began. First I sketched her tower. Then I added a hot air balloon. Then sketched Hazel leaning out the window to grab hold of the wicker basket floating underneath.
"Oh! An adventure in a balloon. Will it take me far away, Henry?" She leaned against me as her story unfolded on the paper.
She escaped her prison in the hot air balloon, but she wasn't alone. In the bottom I drew a puppy with long ears and shaggy fur, to keep her company. Over the next page, the scenery under the balloon changed. Over the Channel, then she glided past the Eiffel Tower, stopping to drape roses around the top, and then she flew across Europe. I drew her a world free of war and disease. Cartoon Hazel and her puppy explored the pyramids of Egypt and made their own version in the golden sand. Then they sailed away in a night time sky, the balloon drifting among the stars toward the moon.
