The Foreshadowing

by Marcus Sedgwick

  Still I have felt nothing of Tom. No dreams.

  At first I was able to talk to the guard on duty outside the tent. He was obviously mystified about having to guard a young woman, and seemed happy to talk, although nervously at first.

  When I told him I wasn’t a spy, that was good enough for him, and then he spoke about himself, the war, and anything I put into his head.

  He patted his leg, which didn’t move properly, and said he was glad not to be at the front anymore, but that he hated the job he had now. He said he’d guarded more than one man on court martial offenses, and that last week he’d had to watch over a private before he went to the firing squad.

  I didn’t believe him at first. I couldn’t believe we were shooting our own men, but he said the boy had run away from the battle when an attack was on. That was desertion, and the punishment was death.

  Then someone must have noticed that he was standing inside the door of the tent and not outside, because he was replaced by not one, but two surly soldiers who said nothing to me no matter how hard I tried to get them to talk.

  Since then I’ve spoken to no one.

  22

  Before my friendly guard was replaced, I asked him about the Somme.

  He’d heard that talk was spreading about some of the engagements, but his knowledge was scant. He’d been in the trenches himself, last summer.

  “Where?” I asked him.

  “Place called Neuve Chapelle.”

  “Was that where you got wounded?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No,” he said, and laughed a quick, short laugh. “I was a proper hero in the trenches. Neuve Chapelle turned into a right fiasco, but I was a real hero. I went on five raids. Never got hurt. Not even a scratch.”

  He told me about the raids. Four or five men and an officer would creep out through our wire at night, armed to the teeth. They might be just having a look at the enemy lines, they might be going to try to kill Germans.

  They’d crawl on their bellies over the mud, around the shell holes, right up to the German wire, sometimes through it, freezing if a flare went up over them, then on again when it went dark.

  “The first time I went . . . ,” he said, and then gave me such a look, I knew what he meant. He was scared fit enough to die from it.

  “But I went back, and back again, with my stick. . . .”

  “Stick?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, cheerfully. “We made a lot of our own weapons. We’re supposed to use bayonets in the trenches, but that’s no good on a night raid. So we make all these things. Like a policeman’s truncheon, say, but with spikes like you don’t want to see. Some lads prefer a good big knife. Easier to use when you get into a trench.”

  I didn’t say anything and he changed the subject.

  “But that’s not how I got my leg. That was an accident. We was having a demonstration of a new grenade. Up to then, we’d been making our own bombs. We’d get jam tins, and pack them full of nails and the like, and the charge. The explosive charge, yes? Not very reliable.

  “So there was a new bomb they was showing us. A metal canister, packed full of shrapnel. There’s this corporal showing us. He’s supposed to throw it over a heap of turnips, but his aim is off and it falls short. We all dive to the ground, like crazy, like we’re going to get it.

  “Then there was a bloody great bang, and a load of turnips flying through the air. Everyone bursts out laughing, and gets up. Then I tries to get up, and found I couldn’t. Bit of shrapnel. That was the end of my time at the front.”

  He laughed.

  Later, I thought about him on his raids, with a weapon in his hand. Presumably he had killed at least one man. Maybe several. He was a friendly man, he seemed very ordinary, kind even, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by what he’d done. And when he got to the German trenches he must have met German soldiers, who would have killed him too, if they could. I wondered if either Englishman or German had the slightest idea what they were killing each other for.

  21

  Each night as I lay down to sleep in the tent that has become my prison, I hoped to sense Thomas. He seemed to have gone quiet on me, but at last he is back.

  With no one to talk to, no one near, I’d had no premonition in days, not even a hint of that itch Jack spoke of. Although I hate it, and dread its coming, when it suddenly vanished, I felt lost without it.

  Then, last night, I dreamt.

  There was Tom. He had his back to me, he was walking away from me. He was in the countryside somewhere, in a wheat field on a beautiful rolling hillside. Away on the horizon was a lush green wood, in the full glory of summer, the trees thick with leaves.

  I could only watch; I felt like a mere observer, unable to take part in this dream.

  Tom held his right arm out to one side, and then I saw the bird perching there. At first I thought it was a bird of prey; he held it as if it were a falcon. But then he gave his arm a gentle lift, and the bird took wing, and then, of course, I saw it was the raven.

  It flapped lazily into the air, and wheeled around, coming back toward me in a wide circle, just to let me know that it knew I was there. The raven flew by and I heard it flapping away behind me. Then it must have turned, because it came forward again.

  It passed me, then passed Thomas, too, and headed toward the wood. The wheat withered and died where its winged shadow fell. As it flew on up the hillside, the blight spread with it, and the hill became a quagmire of sticky mud, pitted with shell holes and strewn with the wire.

  Then the bird reached the lovely wood, which mutated before my eyes into a square mile of splintered trunks and stumps. Those were the strange spikes I’d seen before, and not understood. I knew them now for what they were: a wood that had been murdered. Killed by days of shelling.

  It was another nightmare, but my spirits rose nonetheless. I am used to horror now, and the dream told me something I needed to know.

  Tom is still alive, because I saw him in my sleep last night. More than that, I sensed him as a living being.

  There is still time.

  20

  There is still time.

  But I’m trapped.

  Two guards outside the tent.

  I had to do something to get out. I looked at the back of the tent. Only a tent, after all. Very soon they would surely move me to a proper prison somewhere, and then I would truly be stuck. I decided to wait until dusk before trying anything.

  The day dragged so very, very slowly, but at last, the light began to fail. Through the tent flaps, I could see that there was now only a single man outside. They must have decided that two was a bit much to guard one girl.

  I watched the soldier, what I could see of him, for a long time. He didn’t move—at least, the back of his right leg and the right side of his back remained motionless—and I watched him for more than half an hour.

  As usual, outside, I could hear the noises of the camp. Men calling orders, vehicles rumbling by, shouts, some laughter.

  I took another look at the guard, and crept to the back of the tent. I did it slowly. I used my watch, and made myself take ten minutes over it. I lay down on the ground, and taking a deep breath to try to calm myself, I peered under the flap.

  All I could see was grass and more canvas. There were other tents nearby. Maybe if I could get out I could lose myself among them.

  With a slippery wriggle I forced myself under the tent wall. I was halfway under when I realized that the pegs were too close together. I was stuck. I gave an almighty heave with my shoulders and slid out from the canvas.

  “Just how stupid do you think I am?”

  I rolled over and looked up into the face of my guard.

  I spent the rest of the night lying on the bunk in the tent, staring at the canvas, tears rolling down my cheeks. In the distance I could hear the sound of big guns.

  I called Tom’s name over and over softly to myself, hoping he could somehow hear me, though I knew he could not.
>
  19

  Now the tent is far behind me.

  Early this morning I was woken by what I thought was a rumble of thunder. Then I heard the murmur of voices outside. I could only catch snippets of the discussion.

  “. . . move her . . . Etaples.”

  I couldn’t hear the reply, just a tone of dissent, but I knew then that my chances of escaping were over.

  The discussion outside continued.

  “All right. Wait here. . . .”

  Then silence, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps.

  A second later, the flap of the tent was pulled open, and a large soldier came in, ducking under the low doorway.

  I stood up to meet my fate, and then, as he raised his head, my heart leapt.

  Jack.

  Before I could say anything, he put his finger to his lips, and gave me a look that told me he wasn’t meant to be here.

  “Do you want to get out of here or not?” he whispered.

  I nodded dumbly.

  “Put this around you,” he said.

  He swung off his greatcoat and handed it to me.

  “We don’t have much time. My bike’s outside.”

  “But h-how did—?” I stuttered, confused, half asleep.

  “Not now!”

  It was still early as we put our heads out into the camp. No one was around. Our guard had vanished.

  And there was Jack’s motorbike, its engine the only warm thing in a cold, dew-laden summer morning. Condensation dripped from the tip of the exhaust into the damp grass. Never had a thing looked more beautiful to me. I did the greatcoat up. It swamped me. I pulled the huge collar up and around my hair. I could hardly see, and hoped that that meant no one could see me inside.

  “Hold on tight,” Jack said as we climbed aboard. Once again I rode sidesaddle, and we roared away, passing out of the camp so quickly I barely saw the place where I had been held captive.

  Now we are somewhere in the French countryside. Jack told me the camp was just outside Bethune. We drove as far as a village called Dieval on the main road; then Jack turned off onto roads that are only farm tracks. He said it was too dangerous to move on the main roads.

  I wondered how he knew where he was going at all, but he seemed to know everywhere, without even using a map.

  When I asked him about it, he laughed.

  “It’s my job!”

  He’s spent months riding all over the same small area of France, here and there and back again, avoiding trouble, learning the best routes. I suddenly felt safe, for the first time in weeks.

  18

  We headed to the south of Bethune, into the deepest countryside. We found a small stone hay barn at the back of a wood, and rested there.

  At last, I had the chance to ask Jack all the questions in my head. He seemed quite amused by it, and I felt he was somehow different from the last time we had met.

  As we spoke we sat on a cattle trough under the eaves of the barn. We felt safe; there was no one around. In front of us was a landscape of great beauty. It had been a misty start to the day, a typical summer’s-morning mist, which had turned into a drizzle of rain.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Jack said. “Reminds me of home a little.”

  “Where’s that?” I asked.

  “Hereford. I grew up on a farm. It rains there in the summer too.”

  He smiled. As the rain eased off, wood pigeons began to call to each other in the treetops above us, but there was no other sound besides the dripping leaves.

  “The fields, the woods, the low hills. But just think. If we got on my motorcycle and rode twenty miles that way . . .”

  “What?” I said.

  “They say it’s the closest thing there’ll ever be to hell on earth.”

  He paused.

  I thought of Tom. Of Edgar.

  “What’s it like?”

  He shook his head. The same shake of the head that the Royal Welch corporal had given me when he said “The Somme.”

  “We’ve destroyed it,” he said. “All this. All that you can see here is gone. There are few trees, no grass, no buildings, no birds. No creatures but the rats and lice.”

  He didn’t talk about the men who were dying, and something made me not mention it. I didn’t know why, but he seemed more upset about the landscape than the men.

  “Mud, and wire. Mud and wire, and holes in the ground. If we keep digging long enough maybe we will find hell.”

  “But when the war is over, it’ll grow back,” I said.

  “When the war is over?” he said, shaking his head again. “You haven’t seen it. Nothing could ever grow there again. Nothing.”

  We were silent then, and thinking I might have upset him, I changed the subject.

  “What were you doing in Bethune?” I asked. “The chances of you just finding me . . .”

  “. . . were nil,” he said. “That’s because it wasn’t chance. I came to find you.”

  That surprised me for a start, but I should have known. He had planned everything.

  “You’re big news in Boulogne,” he said, grimly. “Quite the celebrity. Some say you went mad over your husband. Others have you down as a German spy. I even heard one story that you’re a Russian princess, though God knows what they think you would be doing here!”

  A Russian princess. With a sick stomach I thought of Mother. Where was her little Sasha now?

  “Don’t look so worried,” he said. “You’re safe enough. For now. The more nonsense talked about you, the harder it will be for anyone to get to the truth. And only you and I know the truth, don’t we?”

  I thought of Millie, but I had even lied to her.

  “Yes,” I said, “but I still don’t understand . . .”

  “... how I found you?” he asked, but that wasn’t my question. My question was, why?

  “When I heard the stories in Boulogne, I knew immediately you’d got yourself into hot water. It wasn’t hard to find out where you’d gone, so I got myself a job riding to Bethune. Swapped a run with another rider.

  “I watched the camp yesterday, but I wouldn’t have known where you were if you hadn’t tried your escape by the back door.”

  I felt embarrassed at the thought of it, but Jack shrugged.

  “You tried. You’re a brave girl, that’s for sure.”

  “But how did you get the guard to leave?”

  “It was easy. He’ll be in trouble, but I don’t suppose they’ll be too bothered finding you. I came up to him, told him I was to move you to a prison camp. He looked doubtful, but I just kept on. It’s amazing what people will believe, if you believe it yourself. I suppose he was confused because no one’s had to guard a nurse before!

  “I brought a sealed envelope. Waved it at him, said it was my orders, but if he wanted to check he’d have to take it to the officer commanding.

  “So I gave him the envelope and he went. I offered to guard you while he was gone. He even said thanks!”

  Jack smiled and I laughed.

  Above our heads there was a rustling in the treetops, but it was just some birds flapping in and out of the shadows. We watched a pale sun peer through the last of the mist in the field in front of us.

  I looked down, and saw a raven right in front of us, no more than twenty feet away, hopping toward me, cawing.

  I screamed, and fell to the ground.

  17

  When I woke it was dark. Pitch-black. I felt straw under me, and from the way sound died around me I knew I was inside the haybarn.

  “Are you awake?”

  It was Jack. He was somewhere away in the darkness. I could smell petrol from the bike, the dryness of the hay and that was about all.

  The rest of what happened came back to me. I remembered seeing the raven, and falling to the ground.

  I think I was coming in and out of consciousness, sleeping, waking, dreaming, waking again, in such a state of confusion that I had little idea what was real and what was not.

  “You’
ve been in a bad way,” Jack said. “It was the raven, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m just tired,” I said. “And hungry too.”

  But he was right, it was the raven. A common-enough bird, but the shock of seeing it had sent me into a hallucination of fear and dread.

  I saw things.

  I don’t want to think about the things I saw, but when I finally woke up, Jack seemed to know.

  “You can feel them, too, can’t you?” he said.

  “What?” I said, finding my voice. “Who?”

  “The dead,” he said, simply. “They pull at me when I’m asleep sometimes.”

  I nodded, but it was dark, and Jack couldn’t see.

  “I really am hungry,” I said.

  “I know,” he said. “I went to try and find a farm while you were asleep, but I didn’t want to leave you for long. . . . Have some water and we’ll find food tomorrow.”

  He shuffled toward me in the dark and I heard him lighting a match. In the flickering light, I saw the barn around us, stacked high with hay, and Jack’s face in front of me, grimy, and worn deep with lines. His pale blue eyes seemed lifeless.

  “Quick,” he said, holding his water bottle in one hand, the match in the other. “Before it goes out.”

  I took the drink gratefully, but the bottle was nearly empty.

  “Tomorrow,” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “I must find Thomas.”

  The match went out and plunged us back into darkness.

  “No,” Jack said. His voice was dry, and quiet. I knew he was holding something back.

  I didn’t answer, hoping he would say more, but he didn’t.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Suddenly I felt scared, sitting alone in the middle of the French night with a man I didn’t know. A man whom most people considered mad, at that.