The Fog of War

by A. L. Lester

  However, it was extremely uncomfortable, particularly since Walter knew them both well enough to notice the tension between them.

  Sylvia finally lifted her head and asked in a heavy voice, “How? How can you plan something like this?”

  There was another little silence.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Walter said, quietly.

  “No,” said Sylvia. “It’s not a good idea at all.”

  Lucy’s turn to bite her lip.

  “What have we been doing then,” she asked. “Looking at these books, talking about what could have happened, these last few weeks?”

  Sylvia sighed and put her knife and fork down side by side on her plate with careful precision.

  “It’s not a good idea,” she repeated. “But I want to do it anyway.”

  Walter made a sharp noise of protest that he quickly stifled.

  Sylvia looked at him. “I know,” she said. “I know it’s stupid.”

  Lucy’s turn to make a sharp noise. Sylvia turned to her. “You know it is, Lucy,” she said. “It’s ridiculous if you don’t believe in magic. And if you do believe in it, it’s terrifying and dangerous and should be left well alone.” She shuddered. “You didn’t see Marchant, at Christmas. And the other two were terribly shaken up. You could still see the effects of that when we were talking to them. They’re both very cautious about it all. And they aren’t the sort of people to be worried unless there’s a good reason.”

  Walter nodded once, sharply, and both women turned back to look at him. “All right then,” he said to Lucy. “It’s dangerous. We don’t want to do it. But we need to. What do you have in mind?”

  Lucy pulled a face. This was where her planning had become hazy.

  “I think…” she said, carefully, “…I think we should ask Mr Curland if he’ll do a spell for us. A working. Whatever they call it.”

  There was another little silence.

  Walter didn’t say anything else. He pushed his chair back and started furiously gathering the empty plates and putting them in the sink. Sylvia allowed him to take hers from in front of her without moving. He pulled the kettle on and then sat back down with a thump.

  “Right then,” he said. “I don’t agree. But if you’re going to do it, you need someone sensible to do it with you. So, tell us what you’re thinking.”

  Lucy sighed.

  “Not much more than that, at this point,” she said. “But there’s that page in the green book arrived back from your friend…” She trailed off.

  Once the idea of asking her Burmese acquaintance for help had been aired, Sylvia hadn’t been able to sit on her hands. She had copied out the page of fluid, curled text they thought might be Burmese and posted it up to the School of Tropical Medicine in London. Her acquaintance—a Bamar doctor she’d worked with in the early years of the war—had send the translation back by return of post with a letter full of questions. Sylvia hadn’t written back yet, but they had all studied the neatly written poem until the paper was worn and soft around the edges.

  “It’s supposed to help you find someone,” Lucy said quietly. She rubbed at a knot in the wood of the table with an absent finger. “I was going to ask Mr Curland if he’d try it.” There was a little pause. “You’d know, then. Where she was. If she was still…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. She had to force the words out. “If she was still alive somewhere.”

  It was a horrible thought, that Anna wasn’t dead. That she could be trapped somewhere like Mr Marchant had been or hurt by one of the creatures Mr Curland and Mr Webber and the brown book described…the ones that dissolved a person, or the howling ones that pulled you apart.

  She swallowed again.

  “At least Sylvia would know,” she said to Walter.

  Walter looked at her steadily.

  Lucy looked back steadily. Whatever he thought he knew didn’t matter. Lucy didn’t want to be with Sylvia if Sylvia would rather have Anna. If Anna was still alive somewhere, then Lucy would step away from this growing attraction between them. She wanted Sylvia to be as happy as she could be. If that meant reuniting her with Anna, then that’s what Lucy would do.

  * * * *

  “Burmese?” Rob Curland said interestedly, pushing his spectacles more firmly onto his nose. “That’s one we hadn’t considered, isn’t it Matty?”

  His friend looked at the page with his head tilted to one side. “I had no idea about that one,” he said. “How did you know?” he asked Sylvia.

  “Oh, a Burmese colleague in London. It’s such a pretty language on the page, I recognised it immediately.”

  “It is that,” Mr Curland traced the curls in the book with his finger, holding it side by side with the translation. “And this is accurate, is it?”

  “He said so. He said it’s old-fashioned phrasing, but completely understandable. I’m going to need to write to him with an explanation at some point.” Sylvia pulled a face.

  Mr Curland began reading aloud from the translation page, very carefully.

  “Power of the border

  Gathered here between my hands.

  Dissolve time and space

  Reveal—” He broke off. “It says put the name of whoever or whatever in here.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Anna Masters,” she supplied.

  “—Anna Masters to us

  Draw aside the fog of unseeing

  Come forth, Anna Masters

  Summoned by this power I hold between my palms

  I draw you to me over distance, over time, over worlds.”

  He sighed. “Well, that’s clear enough. This stuff about candles and herbs and suchlike. It’s probably not necessary, but we’ll do it anyway. You never know.”

  “Why’s it not necessary?” Lucy asked in a small voice. “I don’t really understand any of this.”

  He looked at her kindly. “We’re not sure. But we think it works because of the power you pull from the border of energy, or other people or what-not, not because of the words you say. Marchant…the man we pulled through…” he paused to see if she was following him and Lucy nodded, “…he said the people who held him captive are much better at this than we are…than I am. And they told him that it was what you intended rather than what you said or did that made things happen.”

  “So, you don’t really need the words at all?” she said. “You just need to think about it and have this energy you talk about? And it happens?”

  Mr Webber joined in at that point. “We think so,” he said. “It was all a bit unpleasant at Christmas. Rob decided he wasn’t going to try and learn any more about it.” He shot the other man a glance. “Although he and Marchant did quite a bit of work together before Marchant went back to London.”

  Mr Curland raised an eyebrow at him, and he pulled a face back. “Don’t look at me like that. I know he was teaching you. Which is just as well, really, for Sylvia’s sake. And her friend.”

  Mr Curland looked slightly shamefaced. “I like to know what I’m messing with, that’s all,” he said. “I didn’t plan on using it. Only in an emergency. Which this sounds like it might be?”

  He looked enquiringly at Sylvia.

  “Not an emergency, per se,” she said, her mouth twisting unhappily. “But what if she’s stuck somewhere terrible, like Mr Marchant was? I can’t bear the idea of it.”

  Mr Curland nodded. “Yes, I can see how that would be preying on your mind.” He looked over at Mr Webber. “I’ll do it for you, Sylvia, don’t worry. I’ll do it gladly.”

  Lucy was thinking. “But…” she said. “If you said that these other people…the elves, Sylvia called them…” She glanced at Sylvia and Sylvia nodded. “If these other people, and Mr Marchant, told you that you didn’t need the words, why are we bothering with the words?” She glanced around. “I don’t understand.”

  Mr Curland pulled a face. “Good question, Miss,” he said. He pulled his ear. “I’m a bit rubbish is the reason, basically,” he said.

 
“I very much dispute that,” Sylvia cut across him at the same time Mr Webber said, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” and then snorted as he caught the other man’s eye.

  Mr Curland gave him a self-depreciating grin. Then he pulled his face back to a serious expression and continued, “Because despite everything I did with Marchant, what he taught me, I’m not a worker…that’s what they call themselves…I don’t really know what I’m doing, and it scares the living Christ out of me. If you’ll pardon my language, Miss.”

  She waved a hand at him in an exculpatory fashion. “Don’t mind me. I worked in a field hospital for three years, remember?”

  He gave her an acknowledging nod before continuing. “I’ll do this, gladly, to help you. But I don’t have any interest in mucking about with it for its own sake, like Matty’s brother did.” He glanced over at his friend. “It killed him, and it damned near killed Matty, and for no good reason at all. So, I’ll use it if there’s a need. A genuine need, not just I fancy a bit of a play or I’m lazy so let’s see if there’s a short-cut to something. This is a reason. So, I’ll help.”

  There was a little silence and then he continued. “And I’m sure if you’re good at it and do it every day like the Frem…that’s what the elves call themselves apparently…then you can do it without words. I can make a flame appear in my hand without words, light a candle, that sort of thing. But anything else…the words help. They focus my mind. Does that make sense?”

  He smiled at her kindly. “And also…I like words. This book…” he poked the green book with all the different writing in it with a respectful finger, “…this book has been round the world, through dozens of different people’s hands by the looks of it. You say this is Burmese. That’s the other side of the world. That’s something amazing.”

  “It is indeed,” Sylvia said. “I’d like to know how Arthur got them. This one and the brown one. That’s from the seventeen hundreds, isn’t it?”

  Mr Curland nodded. “Seems like,” he said. “But Matty’s brother gathered them all. We’ve no idea how he got them.”

  “He was a journalist, in London mostly,” Mr Webber said, shrugging. “But he travelled a lot. India, the Sudan. He could have found them anywhere.”

  “Anyway, that’s by the by,” Mr Curland said. “When do you want to do this? Now? Or another day?”

  Sylvia thought for a moment. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Let’s do it tomorrow, after surgery. Do you want to come down to the house? Or we can come up here? Walt wants to be involved as well, he said.”

  Mr Curland nodded. “Tomorrow is fine. Best you come out here. Less people to see.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Very well.” She drew a breath. “Thank you, gentlemen. I do appreciate it.”

  Mr Webber patted her hand. “You’re welcome, Sylvia. You’re very welcome.”

  Chapter 27

  The three of them made their way up to Webber’s the following afternoon after morning surgery had finished. It was raining, a spattery, chilly April rain that had them hunched in winter coats and hats. They took the Austin, with Lucy sitting in the back behind Walter and Sylvia.

  Robert and Matthew were waiting for them.

  “Come on through,” Matthew said, gesturing to the sitting room door. “We’ve set up in here.”

  Robert was perched on the edge of the seat in one of the two armchairs by the fire, leaning forward to look at a book open on the low table that stood between them and the long, comfortable-looking settee.

  There was a big ceramic bowl on the table in front of him filled with water and a handful of candles scattered beside it. There were also matches, a tea-caddy, a nutmeg, and a small paring knife.

  Sylvia tilted her head to one side, examining them.

  “Tea-time?” she asked.

  Robert looked up with a start. “Oh, you’re here.” He grinned. “This seems like the best we can do. We struck lucky with the nutmeg. Annie got some for rice pudding. I’m going to have to tell her a mouse had it.”

  He stood up. “Mr Kennett,” he said in greeting, holding out his hand to Walt. “Nice to meet you, finally.”

  Walter stepped forward and shook his hand, and then Matthew’s. “Nice to meet you, too. I’ve heard a lot about the two of you.” He looked at them carefully, seasoned soldier looking for danger. “Most of it good.”

  Robert looked him up and down in turn. “Well, the same. Are you sure you want to be here?”

  “More hands,” Walter said, shortly. “I like to know what I’m dealing with.” And then, in a more conciliatory tone, “And I’m nosey, of course.”

  Robert gave a small chuckle. “That’s what got Matty and I into the mess at Christmas. Arthur being nosey. And then me being nosey too.”

  Matthew patted him on the arm. “Your nosiness saved my life, though. So, we’ll let you off.” He turned to the three of them. “Would you like a cup of tea before we start? Or shall we get right on with it?”

  Lucy and Walter looked at her. “Let’s get on with it,” she said. “The sooner it’s done the better.”

  Matthew nodded. “Come on then. Take a seat, everyone.” He gestured to the sofa and they obediently sat down.

  They sat in a line with Sylvia in the middle, Lucy, and Walter either side of her. She was comforted by their bolstering presence. Matthew took the other empty armchair and Robert glanced across at him from where he was checking something in the translation that Sylvia had given him.

  “Right then,” Robert said. “There’s the words to speak…and then there’s this stuff underneath it that says what you’ve got to do first.” He drew a breath. “We light the candles. We place them round the bowl of water. We set light to a little pile of tea leaves. As I say the words, I sprinkle the nutmeg on the top. This is bloody ridiculous by the way. I’m sure it doesn’t make any difference. But I’m going to do it anyway. Because I like a nice recipe.” He paused.

  “Now.” He looked at them all in a cautioning way. “I haven’t done this for a while. Not since Christmas really.” He glanced over at Matthew and then back at Sylvia. “It was pretty bad, then.” He looked at Lucy and Walter either side of Sylvia. “Sylvia told you all about that?”

  Walter nodded and Lucy said, “Yes,” in a small voice.

  Sylvia said, “This isn’t the same situation.”

  Robert agreed with her. “No, it isn’t. Nobody’s connected to anything here, now.” He looked at the other two. “Matty was dying. No other way to say it. His energy was being drained out of him. We needed to cut the cord to save his life. And that involved…cutting Marchant’s throat.” His words were slightly stilted, although he was trying to pass it off casually.

  Lucy made a small, stifled movement beside her and reached out and took Sylvia’s hand. Walter bumped her knee with his own on the other side.

  There was a pause.

  Then Matthew leaned forward and patted Robert’s knee. “It all turned out all right,” he said. “And nobody’s lined up for a throat-cutting now. All you’re going to do is see if you can get a sense of whether Sylvia’s friend is still alive or not, that’s all.”

  Robert nodded. “Yes. So, what I’m going to do is pull energy from the border.” He gestured vaguely. “You’re going to see some light. A shimmer in the air. And if there’s any noises, danger, howling creatures and suchlike, I’ll be stopping straight away, so nobody’s in any danger.” He paused. “Now. I read a bit in one of the other books about other people sending energy to the person doing the working. I won’t be reaching out and taking it from you myself…” He glanced over at Matthew in a clear attempt to reassure. “But…if you can pull it to yourself…imagine the light coming to you and then push it along to me, that might help. But if anything feels uncomfortable, or bad, or wrong, you stop immediately. And if I tell you to stop, you stop immediately too.”

  He looked at them all seriously, one by one. “Understand?”

  Sylvia nodded. “I understand,” she said. She had no desire to repeat the trau
ma of Christmas. “Robert,” she said. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can live without it.”

  He looked at her consideringly. He was a steady man, Robert Curland. He didn’t make decisions quickly, but once he’d made them, they stayed made.

  “No, Sylvia,” he said. “You helped us at Christmas. You didn’t have to. But you did. You could have had me committed. Or up before the magistrate. You’re my friend and I’ll do this.”

  Sylvia swallowed, feeling tears springing to her eyes. She was dripping like a tap all over the place lately. It was ridiculous.

  Lucy squeezed her hand again. “So, we just sit here and watch,” Lucy clarified. “And if we can pull the light toward us and push it out toward you, we do that?”

  Matthew nodded briskly. “Yes, that’s what you do. If you can. I can’t do it,” he said, frankly. “You might not be able to either. Not everybody can do it. Most people can’t, in fact.”

  Walter nodded. “Very well then,” he said. “I’m ready to start if everyone else is.”

  There was a little pause while Robert fiddled around and lit the candles and started the tea leaves burning on a saucer. Then he took the paring knife and shaved a few careful curls of the nutmeg onto the surface of the water in the big bowl.

  “Now…” He started to shut his eyes and then opened them again. “I said not to touch me, didn’t I?” he said.

  “Yes,” Sylvia said. “Yes, you did. Don’t worry. We’ll remember.”

  Chapter 28

  He closed his eyes again and started breathing very steadily. The atmosphere in the room changed. It somehow became heavier, which was ridiculous. It should have been ridiculous, anyway. They sat in silence for a few moments.

  Then at the other end of the room, Sylvia saw a glow out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look at it. It was almost like a ray of sunlight, dancing through the dust-motes to begin with. But it became brighter and brighter until she couldn’t look at it directly and it seemed to spill toward Robert.