Once More Unto the Breach

by Meghan Holloway

  I folded her hand between mine, flinching at how cold her fingers were. I breathed a warm gust of air over her skin and rubbed her hand until it was pink and no longer chilled. I reached over her and gathered her other hand to repeat the process.

  She never stirred for the rest of the day and throughout the night. Otto and I left her side only when necessary, and nurses stopped at Charlotte’s bedside regularly.

  The abbess came and sat on the other side of Charlotte’s bed early the next morning. “My nephew has been asked to accompany a military transport to Chambéry. There was a prison held by the Germans in the city, and the conditions are deplorable. They need more doctors there.”

  I hung my head and rubbed the back of my neck.

  “I spoke with him, and you could catch the transport with him and the other doctors.”

  “When do they leave?”

  “This afternoon. It would place you a hundred kilometers from Lyon.”

  I felt her gaze on me but could not draw my eyes from Charlotte’s still face.

  “I will watch over her for you.” Her voice was gentle.

  “Thank you for arranging this.”

  She stood and rested her hand on Otto’s head. “It is the least I could do.”

  Once she left and we were alone once more in the ward, I leaned forward and pressed my face into Charlotte’s hip, wrapping my arm around her legs. The crisp white sheet beneath my cheek grew damp.

  It took several long moments for me to register the cool hand resting on the back of my neck. I lifted my head and met Charlotte’s gaze. Seeing those blue-gray eyes open only tightened my throat, choking off the words I would have said.

  “Where are we?” Her voice was weak and hoarse. She glanced from me to Otto and then peered around the room.

  I caught her hand and pressed it to my face, my mouth against the pulse of life in the fine blue veins at her wrist. “At the hospital in Cluses.” I recounted the events to her and told her of the abbess’s news.

  “Owain?” she whispered.

  All I could manage was a shake of my head. I cleared my throat. “Only Sévèrin. And I do not know what state she is in, only that she is in a hospital in Lyon.”

  “You have to leave.”

  My eyes closed. “Aye. This afternoon. The abbess has arranged transport to a town called Chambéry, and then I will continue from there.”

  “I am sorry I cannot go with you.”

  I clasped her hand between both of mine and rested my forehead on our interlaced knuckles. “And I am sorry I must leave you behind,” I whispered.

  “I know.” Her free hand came up and followed the line of my brow before dropping to trace along my jaw. “You look tired. Will you lie with me for a while before you leave?”

  I untied my boots. “Aye.”

  The bed was too small for the three of us, but I lay alongside Charlotte and let my feet hang off the end beside Otto. I was careful not to nudge against her, but she caught my arm and drew it over her body. “Come closer.”

  “I do not wish to hurt you,” I said as I obeyed.

  “You could not.” She sighed as I fit my body against hers as well as I could lying on my side while she lay on her back. My chin rested against the crown of her head, one of my knees tucked under hers, Otto warming our feet.

  “I will miss you sorely.”

  I brushed her hair away from her forehead and then folded my arm under my head. “And I you. I regret that we did not find the answers you sought.”

  She turned her face into my chest and clasped her hands around the arm I draped carefully over her. “I found something else along the way.”

  She was delicate and soft, warm and bright, gentle and possessing endless courage. I could have held her forever, lain beside her until the twilight of the last day. I closed my eyes and pressed my lips against the crown of her head. She was still an enigma to me, and even though we had spent the last fortnight together, I realized I knew very little about her. But what I did know was that she was fierce and fearless and constant, and I could not bear the thought of parting from her.

  The hours passed too quickly. Neither of us slept, we simply lay quietly alongside one another, holding to each other. When midday arrived, I could hear the military convoy assembling outside.

  “I would wait for you.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But you have to go now.”

  I untangled myself from her, smoothing the blankets around her. I placed her Colt under her pillow, and then I sat on the edge of the bed and donned my boots once more. Otto repositioned himself over her feet to drape his chin over my thigh as I tied my laces, and when I sat up, I stroked his head, parsing the black curls, fingering his ears. “You are a good lad,” I said softly to him. His brows twitched. “I am thankful you found us by the river and took this journey with me. I know you care for Charlotte as much as I do, so I will not be selfish and ask you to come with me further. Stay here with her and look after her.” Those dark brown eyes studied my face with an almost human keenness and understanding. His tail thumped against the bed, and he nudged my hand with his nose. I bent my head and pressed my lips to the ridged bone of his skull, rubbing my hand along his flank. When I drew back, he licked my cheek.

  I stood and turned to Charlotte. I braced my hands on either side of her and leaned over to rest my forehead against hers. She made a sound at the back of her throat and reached up to cup the back of my neck. Silent tears made silvery tracks down her face.

  “You are the most lion-hearted of women,” I whispered.

  Her breath caught on a sob. “I will come find you after the war.”

  “I will count on that and watch for you. Hwyl fair am nawr. It means goodbye, but only for now.” Cupping her face in my hands, I pressed my lips to hers. They were warm against mine, damp with the trace of her tears. Then I forced myself to let her go.

  I paused at the doorway of the ward and looked back. Otto sat upright on the bed, head cocked, ears pricked as he stared after me. Charlotte’s head was turned on the pillow to watch me, a hand pressed to her lips, her face damp with tears. My vision blurred as I lifted a hand to them, and then I turned and walked away, the salt of her tears lingering on my mouth.

  __________

  The truck was crowded, and I sat shoulder to shoulder with the abbess’s nephew and a French soldier. I rocked back and forth as the truck labored over the rough, hilly terrain. A glance out of the back showed that we were third from the last in the convoy of a dozen vehicles.

  I closed my eyes and allowed the sway of the truck and the quiet murmur of French to lull me. Exhaustion settled about me, and I could feel my head growing weighted, my chin dipping toward my chest.

  I could feel the lice creeping over my scalp. When I clawed at my head, my fingers came away with the nails limned with blood. And still there was no relief from the itching.

  A rat investigated my boot, and instead of kicking it away, I merely watched it, mind blank. Something like pity or envy for the creature moved through me, for he was trapped in the filth as well but immune to the fear and sorrow and boredom. He stopped his progress around my foot to bite at his haunches with the same vigor with which I raked my fingers over my head. The pity and envy morphed into empathy.

  The sound of flesh being furrowed by nails drew my attention, and I glanced at Arthur. He dozed restlessly, sprawled on the fire-step beside me. I looked to the lad across from me in the trench. He whimpered as he clawed frantically at his scalp, and he clambered suddenly to his feet.

  “Je ne peux pas le supporter.” His eyes were wild and red-rimmed. He met my gaze and then turned and scrambled up the side of the trench.

  “No!” I lunged for him, but the German bullet had already found its mark between his eyes. His head snapped back with the force of it, and the back of his skull exploded, sending shards of bone and clumps of brain raining down on me. I could taste his blood and feel the heat of it on
my face.

  I caught him as he fell backward in a boneless sprawl, and his weight took us both to the mud.

  “You bloody fool,” I whispered, kneeling in the mire, holding him in my arms.

  But when I looked at him, he was no longer the French soldier. He bore the face of my son.

  I moaned. “No, no, you cannot be here, Owain.” I cradled the back of his shattered head in my hand and could only feel wet, warm gore. “No, no, no.”

  His eyes snapped open, as green as my own. “Dadi.” His voice was that of Owain’s when he was but a child. “Help me.”

  I lurched into wakefulness violently, almost falling off the bench.

  “Monsieur?”

  I blinked, and the wary gazes of the French soldiers sitting across from me came into focus. The abbess’s nephew clasped my shoulder, his grip firm.

  “Etes-vous bien?”

  I met his concerned gaze. “Thank you, I’m well, I am.”

  He searched my face and then nodded, relinquishing his grip. I sighed and rubbed my hands over my face, struggling to remove the disturbing image from my mind.

  I did not allow myself to fall prey to sleep again for the remainder of the journey. It was a four- or five-hour trek from Cluses, and we arrived in Chambéry in the early evening.

  When I leapt down from the back of the truck, it felt as if I were stepping off a boat. It took me a moment to steady my legs beneath me. The temporary military camp was a hive of activity.

  I approached one of the drivers of the convoy. “I am in need of transportation. Do you know who can assist me?”

  He eyed me. “You are not a doctor?” His accent was so thick I had difficulty discerning his words.

  It struck me suddenly that without Charlotte and her ambulance, my movement through the country would not go unquestioned, and I could not afford to be detained.

  “I am. Thank you.” I did not look back as I walked away. I could feel his stare following me and did not want to rouse his suspicion further.

  Once out of sight, I cut through the camp, commandeered a bicycle leaning against the side of a building, and slipped into the tangle of Chambéry’s streets.

  It had been years since I had ridden a bicycle, and my start was a fitful one. The front tire wobbled back and forth as I sought to maintain my balance on the contraption. By the time I reached the outskirts of the city, though, I had found a rhythm and steadiness.

  There were still a couple of hours of sunlight left. The way was hilly, but the kilometers passed far more swiftly under my stolen tires than they would have under my feet.

  The sun was bright in my eyes as it set over the trees, and a spire stood over the village ahead. Dusk was deepening into night when I reached the small cathedral, and I wheeled the bicycle into the vestry.

  I lay on a bench in the chapel, watching as the stained glass darkened from its multi-hued beauty to a jumble of blacks and grays. I expected to lie sleepless throughout the distance between the sun’s set and rise. But when I opened my eyes, feeling as if only a moment had passed, a prism of color from the stained glass played over me.

  I wasted no time getting back on the road. As I pedaled west, the steep inclines and declines softened into rolling slopes punctuated with long, flat straightaway stretches. The forests became interspersed with fallow fields.

  Storm clouds developed in the east, skirting the sun’s rise and soon veiling her ascent into the sky as they overtook me. The clouds were leaden and heavy, burgeoning with rain and shifting in shape and color as they developed overhead. They surpassed me with a deep rumble of thunder, and within an hour, the western horizon was a blue-black bruise of color, threaded with white rents of lightning.

  I reached Lyon at midday after several hours of hard pedaling. The storm had moved further west, leaving the streets of the city cool and rain-washed. It was as chaotic as when we had left it only days earlier: milling with gaunt citizens, teeming with soldiers, ringing with gunfire. Uncertain of my destination, I walked, pushing the bicycle alongside me.

  The soft sound of muffled crying drew my attention down the alley I passed, and the sight of the huddled figure in the depths of the narrow through-way gave me pause. I leaned the bicycle against the mouth of the alley and approached the small figure.

  “Are you well?”

  It was a child, a young boy who looked up at me as I drew near. His face was tear-streaked and cradled in his hands was a wounded bird. The sight brought me to an abrupt halt, and for an instant, as memories flooded me, the boy bore a different child’s face.

  A water-logged sniff brought me back to the present, and I knelt beside the boy. “What has happened here?”

  His chin trembled, and he stroked the serin’s quivering yellow breast. “Je ne voulais pas.” A sob shook him.

  “There now,” I said, voice soft as I took in the damage. One of the little finch’s wings hung low and lifeless. “His wing is broken, it is. With some care, he will be able to fly again in a matter of weeks.” I drew the knife from my boot, and the boy hid the bird against his chest. I smiled my reassurance, cut a strip of fabric from the tail of my shirt, and tucked the knife away. I held out my hands to the boy. “May I?”

  He wiped his damp face against his shoulder and hesitantly offered me the serin. I cupped the fragile creature in my hands, stilling its flutterings by rubbing my thumb over the delicate tufted cap of its skull. The boy shuffled closer as I gently folded the broken wing against the side of the bird’s body and secured it in place with the swath of cloth. I ensured the makeshift bandage was tight enough to hold the wing in place but loose enough for the bird to breathe easily. The boy watched me work with a rapt expression as his tears subsided.

  “If you will take care of him, give him seed and grubs and water, once his wing heals, he will be able to continue on his journey.”

  I had no idea if the boy understood anything I said, but he suddenly leapt to his feet and raced down the alley. “Attendez!” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

  I waited, kneeling in the alley, drowning in memories. He was back in minutes, clutching a basket to his thin chest. When he thrust it out toward me, I saw that he had filled the basket with a blanket. I placed the bird in the center of his child-made nest and watched the boy smooth the blanket around him. Owain had shown the same care and concern for the creatures he had found wounded or ill.

  He smiled up at me. “Merci, monsieur.”

  I returned his smile, and he followed me onto the street, where I retrieved the stolen bicycle. I turned back to him and carefully pronounced the name of the hospital the abbess had told me of. “Do you know it?” I repeated the name.

  His brow wrinkled and then cleared, and he nodded vigorously. He started to race down the street but then remembered his cargo. He motioned for me to wait and darted through an open doorway. He returned without the basket and beckoned for me to follow.

  He dashed through the streets, and even with my longer strides, I had to hurry to keep up with him. He led me through the tangle of streets toward the city center until he stopped abruptly and waited at a busy corner for me to catch up with him. He pointed, and I eyed the grand building across the street. My chest felt tight, and I rubbed the space over my thrumming heart.

  I turned back to the boy and tilted the bicycle toward him. “Thank you.”

  He touched the handlebars and glanced up at me uncertainly. When I nodded and stepped back, his gap-toothed smile grew. A torrent of French was directed at me along with a wave as he ran alongside the bicycle before leaping onto the seat as if swinging himself into the saddle on a horse.

  I stared after him for a moment before I crossed the street and entered the hospital.

  It took several minutes to find a nurse who spoke English and when I told her of the reason for my visit, she checked her records and eventually led me to a quiet ward on the second floor. “The third bed,” she said, voice low.r />
  The occupant appeared small and childlike, curled on her side in the narrow bed. Her hair was a dark tangle, and one foot peaked from beneath the sheet drawn over her. It was small and pink-soled, and a crescent of grime ringed her heel. I pulled the sheet over her foot and rounded the bed.

  I staggered when I reached the far side of her bed and faced her. Her knees were drawn up, and one splinted arm curved around the swell of her belly. My legs barely carried me to the chair before they collapsed under me. I leaned forward and braced my elbows on my knees. My eyes burned, and I pressed my palms against them to keep the emotion at bay.

  “You are so far from me at times.”

  Aelwyd’s soft whisper brought my head around. I responded with raw honesty. “I do not mean to be.”

  “I know.” She crossed to me, moving from the cool gild of moonlight in the lawn to the dark swaddling of shadow as she reached where I sat atop the stone wall beneath the tree.

  I lifted her into place beside me and then retrieved my cigarette. I took a slow, deep drag, letting the smoke fill and heat my lungs before releasing it into the night. From the corner of my eye, I caught the way Aelwyd turned her head aside. “It bothers you?”

  She cleared her throat. “It did not prior, but of late the smell has turned my stomach.”

  I extinguished the burning paper and tobacco on the rock. “Are you unwell?”

  “No.” She reached out and grasped my hand where it rested between us on the wall and drew it to her stomach. Her nightgown was soft, the fabric warm from her skin. “I’m with child, I am.”

  My gaze flew to her face, but I could not make out her expression in the darkness. I tried to withdraw my hand, but she pressed it harder into the soft flesh of her belly. “Please.” Her voice caught. “Please, Rhys. Let this bring you the rest of the way home. To me. To us.”

  I was silent, but when she relinquished her grip on my hand, I left it on her stomach and closed the distance between us where we sat on the stone wall.