I did not bother cleaning up after my work. I searched through the frames and trunks but found nothing worth saving. I studied the scene once more to commit it to memory and then left, blending in with the passersby on the street with ease even as I studied each face I passed. The man I had seen on the street earlier had features so similar to the man I sought that I knew if I could find him, he would lead me to Owain.
28 September 1940
Dear Nhad,
Most have returned to the city from the countryside.
Rations and curfews have been put in place.
German propaganda is all I see and hear.
The French are frustrated but silent.
-Owain
iv
There was one checkpoint as we left the sprawl of Paris and headed south. It was manned by a trio of young American soldiers, their faces drawn from war but still holding the earnestness of boyhood. All three of their faces lit when they saw Charlotte.
I was not the only one affected by her smile, I noted, as she laughed and beamed and complimented them while they looked over our identification cards.
When they allowed us through and we drove on, she turned the smile toward me, though this time it held a rueful edge. “I find it helps to smile when I ask for something.”
I chuckled and felt a stir of pity for her parents.
“And it costs me nothing to smile and charm, especially when our boys seem to need it so.”
“Women represent home,” I said without thinking. “Home and softness. Warmth. Something to which we can return.”
She glanced at me as she shifted gears. “You fought in the Great War?”
“Aye. At the Somme.” I had been in other skirmishes and battles, but the Somme was the one that still found me in sleep most often. I forced my thoughts from the mire, lice, and blood.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft. “My grandfather fought in the War between the States.”
“Your civil war?”
“Yes. He would never speak of that time.”
“Sometimes the past is better left where it is and not brought home.”
Charlotte was not one to mince air, and silence descended between us, comfortable and light. To avoid watching her, I studied the passing landscape. As long as I did not look down at the ground rushing past, my stomach stayed where it was.
The city gave way to outlying villages which eventually flattened into a plain of what once was likely farmland but was now churned into mud that had been sun-dried into a wasteland. The road was rutted, and dust billowed under the agitation of the tires. The ambulance swayed with the same lulling motion of my wagon at home. I smiled to myself, even as I felt the weeks of exhaustion settle about my shoulders like a cloak.
I fingered the swelling of my jaw as I yawned. The motion caused the joint to crack.
“You should rest. You are likely worn slap out.”
My head was starting to droop, but it jerked up at Charlotte’s words.
“I know you did not sleep last night. I woke when you covered me and saw you at the window.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Sleep does not come easy to me.”
Sitting at an angle behind her, I could not see her smile, but I caught the movement of the curve of her cheek as she did so. “Your accent is getting thicker.”
“I am not the one with an accent.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Sleep. It is open road for some kilometers before we reach the forest.”
“If there is anything amiss…”
“I will wake you. Rest. There is nothing that needs done.”
I closed my eyes and drifted. I slept as I usually did: only a few steps from wakefulness where dreams come with ease and the guise of reality.
I dreamt of home.
A section of the fence in the north pasture was beginning to crumble. The spring was a wet one, and multiple stones had been knocked awry by sliding mud.
The boys had helped me clean away the rubble and remove the loose rocks. Davey and Neville, too small to help Stephen and Peter haul the stones we had collected, were mixing the mortar while I removed the loose masonry.
The wind was brisk and still held the chill of winter as it swept over the hills. It whistled in my ears, so I didn’t hear her calling at first.
Neville tugged at my shirtsleeve.
“What is it, cariad bach?”
He did not answer, of course. The tow-headed lad had not spoken since he had arrived with the other ten children four years ago. He tugged at my sleeve again, and this time I turned and followed the direction of his pointed finger.
My mother was laboring up the hill, the hem of her skirt caked in mud.
Straightening from my crouch, I placed a restraining hand on each boy’s shoulder as they started to race toward her. The frantic way Mam waved and shouted my name had unease settling in my gut. “Wait here.”
I strode toward her, catching her arm as she slipped on the wet turf.
“Rhys,” she gasped, and clung to my arm.
Concerned, I set her back from me. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. “What is it? News about one of the children’s parents?”
She shook her head and wordlessly handed me the paper she clutched.
It was a letter, stained, an edge torn. The ink that scrawled my name and the location of the farm was faded, but I recognized whose hand had penned it. My own fingers were unsteady as I unfolded the paper.
But as I tried to read the letter, it caught flame, singeing my hands before it turned to ash. And as the ash fell through my grasping fingers, it turned to blood.
I lurched into wakefulness, fumbling for my breast pocket, only relaxing when I felt the crumple of paper. The letter remained where it had been since I received it, worn but whole and unscorched. It was a dream I had been having for months now. I withdrew the cigarette from my pocket and tucked it into the corner of my mouth.
The sun was in its waning descent toward the horizon. The ground was still flat but trees now hemmed the track of road on either side.
“I don’t mind if you smoke,” Charlotte said.
“I do not smoke.” I tucked the cigarette back in my pocket and leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees, in time to catch the quirk of her brow. “Did I sleep long?”
“Only perhaps an hour. I was about to wake you. We should stop before the sun sets. Traveling at night is risking being shot.”
“The Germans are known to be in these woods?”
“The Resistance. They tend to strike before they ask questions.”
I touched the bandage on my forehead. “Aye. Is there water nearby?”
“The Seine is over yonder to the east.”
“Let’s make camp close by.”
She took the next turnout leading toward the river, and we wound our way deeper into the forest. Boulders hunched like silent sentries as we drew closer to the water. We edged around a grouping of boulders taller than the ambulance, and then the track suddenly exited the trees and widened into a clearing on the water’s edge. Charlotte started to drive into the clearing, but I stayed her hand on the gearshift.
“No, that is too exposed. Pull back around the boulders. We will set up camp there.”
She reversed the big vehicle as if it were a small Jeep, backing between the boulders and copse with no hesitation.
“When did you learn to drive?”
She set the brake, and the engine rumbled into stillness. The forest was quiet with only the conversation of the birds and the sigh of the water to fill it. Some of the tension that had tightened my chest in the last weeks loosened, and I took a deep breath.
“My grandfather had a tobacco plantation. My father has it now. But my grandfather let me start driving his Fordson when I was eight.” She chuckled. “My mother and grandmother were madder than wet hens when they found out.”
We exited the cab, and she followed me throu
gh the trees to the water’s edge. I motioned for Charlotte to wait in the trees as I stepped into the open. The birds continued their whistling and warbling, and all was still.
The river was wide and moved with a slow, lazy current. I could see the bed for only a couple meters before the water deepened. On either shore, all I could see were trees.
When I turned back to Charlotte, she had her gun in hand and she scanned the riverbank as well.
“All seems well,” I said.
The water was blissfully cool, and I drank deeply before splashing my face and letting the water run in rivulets under my collar. Charlotte sighed, and when I turned to her, the gun was no longer in sight and her hair was wet.
“Do you think it’s safe to swim?” Her eyelashes were damp and spiked together, and a bead of water trailed down her cheek.
“Let’s search the area first, and then we can take turns in the water.”
We walked a kilometer perimeter around the site but found no signs of encampments, Resistance or German. I shortened my stride, conscious of the woman at my side, and she kept pace with me without complaint.
Charlotte retrieved our rucksacks from the ambulance, and then we took turns in the water. She handed me her Colt, and I sat on a boulder with my back to the water. I forbore not to focus on the whisper of cloth as she disrobed behind me and then splashed into the water. She gasped.
“Cold?”
“Freezing! But pure bliss.”
I retrieved fresh clothes from my rucksack and cautiously removed the bandage from my right temple. The gash felt raw and tender under my palpations, but no fresh blood stained my fingers when I drew my hand away. “You’ve not been in the River Tywi.”
“Is that in Wales?”
“Aye. Its source is in the Cambrian Mountains. It flows through my valley and is cold enough to steal your breath and shrivel your—” I stopped, recalling to whom I was speaking. “It is bitterly cold, it is.”
She laughed, the sound dancing with the sweet song of the water. “Where I’m from, the heat and humidity make it feel as if you are wrapped in wet cotton in the summertime. The bayou was in our backyard, but you’d better have a care trying to swim there or you would be a gator’s supper.”
Her rucksack slouched at my feet. “A gator?”
“It is a creature like something out of a nightmare. Huge and prehistoric with a bite fierce enough to take down a horse.”
I could not fathom such a creature. “And you swam with such a beast?” I leaned over on the pretense of untying my boots and slipped my hands into her rucksack.
“Not on even the hottest days! We would crawl under the fence and swim in the neighbor’s cow pond.”
I leafed through the folds of her clothes with care, cautious not to disturb the meticulous way she had packed the satchel. “You have siblings?”
“A younger sister. It’s her cow pond now. She married the neighbor’s son.” I heard more splashing and then a sigh. “I imagine I’m an aunt by now, but with the mail restrictions I do not know.”
I knew of mail restrictions. “When all of this is over, will you return home?” I did not know what I expected to find tucked away and hidden in her rucksack, but all I encountered was the few items I had seen her pack.
There was silence for so long I thought she may not have heard me. When she spoke, she was close behind me, her voice muffled as she dressed. “I suppose so.”
I quelled the urge to startle and jerk my hands from the rucksack. The movement would give me away. I stayed bent over my knees, withdrew my hands and made certain her satchel appeared undisturbed, before I quickly untied my laces.
“I have not thought about it, to tell you the truth,” she continued. “The war seems to have lasted so long I grew used to not thinking about anything but one day at a time. Do you think it is over?”
I straightened and set my boots aside. “The war? I think with the foothold the Americans have in Europe now it will only be a matter of time before the Germans are pushed back.”
“You’ll return to Wales after you find your son?”
She touched my shoulder, and I stood to allow her the use of the boulder. I left her pistol on the rock and stacked my clean clothes on the grass. Her hair was darker wet and slick against her head and neck. Unpinned, it draped about her shoulders. Her eyes appeared larger and a dark blue with her hair smoothed away from her face. She wore her green dress now, the light blue a wet bundle in her arms, and the color suited her.
“You may borrow my soap, if you like. You will not come out smelling of flowers.”
I chuckled and accepted the cake from her, waiting until she was seated and turned away before stripping down and plunging into the river. The water was cold and refreshing, and the brisk temperature soothed the ache in my head, jaw, and back. I bathed first, then gave my trousers and shirt a scrub before swimming into deeper water.
“Will you?” Charlotte called, reminding me of her question. She drew a comb through her hair, and I turned away from the temptation to admire the curve of her waist and the intimate movement of the wooden teeth through her hair.
“Aye. 'Tis home.” There had been a time when I was a lad when I had wanted to leave, had disdained the toil of my father and grandfather and his father before. But hunched in a trench, I had promised myself that if I made it home, I would never leave. The farm had, at first, become a beacon, and once I returned, it became my lifeblood. I was tethered to that stretch of soil. Pluck a thread of my valley, and I felt the reverberation to my core. I did not care for how stretched those threads felt with such distance between home and where I now stood.
“Rhys.”
The alertness in Charlotte’s voice had me swimming back to shore in powerful strokes that propelled me through the water. When I reached the shallows, she was standing facing the woods, though she did not have her gun in hand.
“I’m here,” I said, voice low, only pausing long enough to yank on my clean trousers.
“Slowly. I do not want to frighten him.”
I approached her cautiously, glancing down at her when I reached her side.
She tipped her chin. “Just there.”
I followed her direction and saw a dark shadow just within the line of trees. I relaxed and whistled softly. “Here now, bach. Here.”
The dog edged out of the woods, eyeing us warily. He was tall and leanly built, his black curls dense and littered with twigs. He cautiously wagged his cropped tail.
I knelt, talking softly to him, only realizing I spoke in Welsh when Charlotte whispered, “What are you saying to him?”
“I told him he is a handsome lad and he is safe here. We mean him no harm.”
As we spoke, he wandered closer, and when I slowly stretched out a hand, it was the deciding factor for the beast. He crossed the last distance between us at a run. He pressed his angular head into my hand and then pushed past my arm and buried his head against my bare chest.
“The poor lamb.” Charlotte dropped to her knees and ran a gentle hand down his back. “Bless his heart. He has half the forest in his coat. Where did he come from, I wonder? I think he is a poodle under all of these leaves and twigs.’
“Aye.” I felt his withers, along his back and loins, and inspected his paws. “No injuries. He appears in good health, though perhaps a bit hungry and in need of some care.” I cupped his muzzle and lifted his head from my chest to inspect his teeth. He stood passively, showing no hint of aggression or unease. His teeth were in good condition, and I put him at about five or six years of age. His eyes were limpid brown, and he met my gaze with the age-old wisdom and patience canine’s possess. I rubbed his ears, and he closed his eyes and leaned into my hand. “Well then, if you can start a fire, I will catch the three of us supper.”
Charlotte and the dog both beamed. I stood and retrieved my clean shirt, shrugging my arms into the sleeves and buttoning it before tucking the tails into my trousers. Charlotte c
ollected her wet dress from where it was draped over the rock and my wet garments stretched over the grass and patted her hip as she moved into the trees. “Come, pup. We will have to think of a name for you.”
The dog glanced back and forth between us. His tail thumped in the dirt, and he whined. “Go on with you now,” I said. “I do not blame you for your choice.”
He loped after Charlotte.
A fired burned in the middle of a cleared circle of ground behind the ambulance when I returned to our camp with five carp. Our wet clothes were draped from the side mirrors of the vehicle, and woman and dog sat beside the fire. She used the comb she had drawn through her own hair to work out the mats and debris in the poodle’s coat. He lay peaceably on his side, his back leg sticking straight up in the air. She hummed as she went about her task, and I was caught by the picture the pair made.
As I banked the fire and gutted and cleaned the fish, I caught the tune of her humming and smiled. “Puccini?”
She glanced at me, and with her hair soft about her face I could not miss what a fine sight she was, all wispy hair, dark eyes, and sun-like smile. I could not trust her, but I could not resist admiring her. “You know your opera.” The dog placed his paw on her thigh, coaxing her back to the task. Already he looked less like an abandoned wild creature and more like a pampered pet with his coat free of the worst snarls.
“My father bought my mother a gramophone one year for Nadolig. For Christmas. She loves opera, though I cannot say I care for all of it. Sounds like the wailing of a cyhyraeth.”
“A cyhyraeth?” She stumbled over the pronunciation.
“A spirit who moans and shrieks when it is a person’s turn for death.”
“Like a banshee?”
“Aye. The Irish have their banshees. We Welsh have our cyhyraeth. They make a noise as disagreeable as opera.” Her head tilted back as she laughed, exposing the pale, delicate line of her throat. Simply to watch her laugh again, I said, “In the summer, when we left the windows open at night, my mam’s gramophone gave the closest neighbors a terrible fright.”
Once More Unto the Breach Page 4