Along The Watchtower

by Litwack, David

  He was being kind, but I could imagine his thoughts. The dauphin had gone daft, succumbing to the pressures of anointment.

  I thanked him, wished him well, and backtracked along the tunnel, hoping to find a way to make it transform. But as if to mock me, the castle refused to change.

  ***

  Frustrated in my attempt to find the chamber, I went to the gardens instead, seeking a gentler spirit-Rebecca among the hydrangeas. But she was nowhere to be found.

  I settled beneath the sprawling elm tree and stared up at the sky, hoping to catch a patch of blue through its branches. Nothing but thunderclouds racing before the wind.

  I sniffed the air. The heat had strengthened the fragrance of the flowers. If it persisted, all the blossoms would die.

  I listened. No folk were about and all the birds had fled.

  I rubbed my eyes as if trying to remove a stain. Seek the white rose. Embrace the shadows. Pipes and heroes. What did it all mean?

  Then a sound on the gravel path. I started, but my sword stayed sheathed. More the sprightliness of slippers than the crunch of boots. And a voice like a song.

  "So low, Sire. Is there nothing your humble servant can do?"

  I looked up. Rebecca.

  "You mustn't call me Sire. I won't become king until I've overcome the trials, if ever."

  "But most surely you will."

  "I'd have your confidence if I could fight with my sword. But that's not how the battle with demons is won."

  A shiver passed through her. "You do battle with demons? You must be brave."

  "Not brave. The demons can't harm me. They can only muddle my mind."

  She tilted her head to one side, her look questioning.

  "I don't understand, Milord."

  "It's hard to explain. In the watchtower, I see visions that make me wonder what's real."

  She walked over to the wall of the watchtower, where a climbing vine was covered with clusters of white stars. Taking the small knife from her apron pocket, she reached up on tiptoes, cut off a sprig, and brought it to me. As she approached, the air filled with perfume.

  "Take this," she said. "Touch it, smell it. Then tell me it's not real."

  I had no need. The flowers overwhelmed my senses, driving the trials from my mind.

  "There," she said, nestling beside me on the bench. "Now that you know this sweet autumn clematis is real, you'll know I'm real as well and won't go sticking me with your sword again."

  I buried my face in the flowers, drunk from their scent, and she leaned in close to smell them as well.

  "If only they were roses," I said.

  "Not all flowers can be roses, Milord. This clematis has a glory of its own. And no rose has ever smelled as sweet."

  "But I need to find a white rose."

  "Why?" she said.

  "I don't know why. That's only what I've been told." I lowered my voice to sound like the great elf. "Seek the white rose, even though no roses are in bloom."

  "But Milord," she said laughing, "you don't know one flower from another. Pretend along with me and perhaps we'll find the magic you seek."

  I looked into her laughing eyes. "How?"

  "I'll find you a white rose." She searched through the garden and selected a flower. "Ah, here's one, hiding among the others." She snipped it off with her knife.

  "That's no rose."

  "Yes, Milord, a rose of sorts. And with magic strong enough to anoint you king. Here, no need to kneel. Sitting will do, and besides, you're low enough already."

  She touched my forehead with the flower. I could feel its texture, like velvet. But when her hand brushed my cheek, I began to believe.

  "What flower is it really," I said, "this pretend rose of yours?"

  "Well, Milord, if you must spoil the moment, it's a fall crocus. But that doesn't mean it lacks magic. Keep my gift close, and it will help you find your way."

  She offered me the flower and I tucked it into my tunic.

  "There," she said. "No demon can harm you now."

  I smiled weakly. "The dreadlord must be quaking in his boots."

  "You make light of me, Milord. But you're in my garden now, and no demons are allowed. If they dare approach, they'll be overwhelmed by the scent of my very real flowers."

  Weighed down by my burden, my smile settled into a frown.

  "I wish the trials were so simple, Rebecca. But to overcome them, I'm bound to wander the castle searching for a spirit who can provide me an answer. Yet the days grow short and I've found nothing."

  "Perhaps," she said, a glimmer in her eye, "the answer is nearer than you think."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Are you so certain you need a spirit?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Because I'm also here in the castle."

  I stared at her, unblinking. She stood before me and made a curtsy so low, the ruffled hem of her apron whispered across the toes of her slippers.

  "Your servant," she said with a blush. "Milord and soon to be Sire."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stories

  After the trip to the gingerbread house, I threw myself into my rehab. Though my right leg was limited by the brace, I worked the rest of my body like I was training for playoffs. My arms became stronger and I had no more need for the wheelchair.

  I tried to rehab my mind as well, giving in to Becky's suggestion to attend the PTSD group. At first I didn't say much. Nothing could change the reality of what I'd been through. But listening to the guys reawakened some memories of Iraq, not just the war but the camaraderie.

  The trip to the Cape had reawakened something else in me. Now once again, I wanted to design beautiful places, to build and not go to war. I might never play basketball again, but I could still become an architect. It would be another long road, made harder by injuries and time away, but I believed I could do it. A few courses, an internship, and then certification. As Becky would say, a goal. Something to hope for.

  Not only did I realize how much I could do, but the demons in the garret had been exorcised. In the days that followed, while I sweated through PT, Becky and I talked about what had happened there, things I'd never discussed with anyone. Some were memories my concussed brain had lost, but Becky kept bringing them back-the pain that can't be spoken.

  After Joey died, my mother began to lose it. I came home from school one day and found her and Richie sitting in the kitchen, waiting for me with the table set for five.

  "Are we expecting company?" I said.

  She smiled a mother's smile that seemed to say I'd understand when I was grown.

  "You know there are five of us, Freddie."

  I waited, hoping she'd remember, then felt compelled to speak.

  "Not anymore," I said as gently as I could.

  "But of course we're five, Freddie. Dad and Joey and-"

  I started to say, "They're gone," but bit my lip.

  Too late. She'd read the anguish on my face. Her mouth opened like she meant to scold, to tell me the error of my ways. She drew in a breath, but it escaped as a sigh instead of a sentence.

  She stood, took one step toward me, and diminished. First she folded over, hands on knees. Then her knees buckled and her hands splayed out to either side. She bent until her forehead nearly touched the newly waxed floor, so shiny I could see her face reflected in it. Her hands rose to her hair and she began tearing at it, while Richie cowered in a corner. Still no sound, only small and sudden gulps of air.

  After a minute, I took her gently by the elbow and helped her stand, but she refused to come back to the table. Instead, she led me to the garret where she took up watch at the oculus, staring out to sea.

  After that, she mostly stayed there, still insisting I set the table for five, but never coming to dinner. I'd prepare a meal, wait ten minutes for her, and then Richie and I would eat. When we were done, I'd bring up a tray.

  She'd listen to her song and push the food around on her plate with a fork, but never ate much a
gain. Her spirit had vanished like the family itself. I tried to convince her to join us, but eventually I gave up. What was the use? Everything she had left was in the garret-the music, the mermaid, and the ocean.

  In her last weeks, she hardly ever abandoned her watch. I'd come home from school and try to talk with her, and when she had nothing to say, I'd sit with her and Richie and listen to the music box, while she hummed softly and stared out at the ocean.

  Near the end, she slept a lot and withdrew. Her eyes became narrow and glassy, focusing only occasionally. When I brought her meals, I'd have to let her know it was me. She'd nod, take my hand, sometimes squeeze. Occasionally, she'd ask where Joey was. Or tell me to remind Dad to be on time for dinner.

  One day, she asked me to bring her makeup kit and the sun dress she always wore when she went to the beach. It was winter, hardly twenty degrees, and a wind howled from the north through the eaves. But I did as she asked. She was barely strong enough to put on the dress, needing my help to slip on the arms. Next she wanted a mirror, apparently not troubled by the skeleton she'd become. And for fifteen minutes, she put on makeup. When she was done, she asked for the costume tiara my father had given her for their twentieth anniversary, just before he died. She put it on and told me to move the chair closer to the garret window.

  It was late afternoon, an overcast day, but as so often happens by the sea, the sun broke through from behind a cloud and shone directly through the garret window. An orange hue streamed onto her face, making the tiara sparkle.

  She took my hand, lifted it to her lips, and kissed it three times.

  "My Freddie," she whispered.

  It was all the love she had left. She took one long breath, as if letting the taste of salt air linger on her tongue. And then she was gone.

  ***

  I bounded along on my crutches, my confidence growing each day. My arms were getting stronger. I'd built up callouses on my hands so they hurt less. My good leg supported me without as much as a wobble. And tomorrow, the brace would come off.

  Then, according to Becky, the real work would begin.

  Looking for a place to show off my newfound mobility, I headed for Jimmie's room-1563, the number he could never remember. When I arrived, Jimmy was sitting at a table, fumbling with a deck of cards like he was playing solitaire.

  I swing-bounded into his room. "What's up, Jimmie?"

  "Memory therapy," he said.

  When I came closer, I saw they weren't playing cards but photos of soldiers, the kind they put in a basic training yearbook. He was shuffling through them, eager young men, whole and brave, trying to remember their names. He'd pick up a card, say a name, turn it over and read the answer on the back. Then he'd shake his head. He kept trying, always saying the same name until after seven or eight more cards, he found the right one.

  "Not doing so good, Freddie. I can only get one."

  "But you're saying the same name over and over again."

  "I know." He grinned like Richie, an innocent grin. "Only one I can remember."

  "Who are they?" I said.

  "Guys from my squad. Dr. B. claims I was their leader, but I can't recall most of them."

  "What's the doc say?"

  He laughed. "'Keep trying, Jimmie.'"

  We both turned at a knock on the door and watched Dinah come in. I hopped over to show off.

  "Getting pretty good at it, Freddie," she said.

  "I have a great physical therapist. You need to see Jimmie? I'll get out of your way."

  "I'm here for you, Freddie. You have visitors."

  Panic. I had no family. Maybe Richie? But I'd been down that wishing well once too often.

  "Who?" I said, hiding my panic with a smirk. "Someone from the USO?"

  Her answer wiped the smirk off my face.

  "The wife and son of one of your men."

  ***

  While I hobbled back to my room, I racked my brain. If I were given the same exercise as Jimmie, how would I do? I started listing the guys in my squad by Humvee, working from the gun turret down. Humvee one. Check. I had almost gotten through Humvee two when I reached my room.

  Seated on guest chairs were a woman and a young boy, maybe eight years old. Someone had been kind enough to offer them soft drinks while they waited for me. The woman looked vaguely familiar, maybe a picture I'd seen. But I couldn't mistake the boy. He was the spitting image of the archangel.

  The woman stood and took my hand, then brought it to her lips and kissed it.

  "You're Freddie? Pedey's commanding officer? I'm Maria. I am . . . was . . . his wife."

  My throat thickened. Nodding was the best I could do.

  "Thank you for all you did," she said. "He always told me he had the best squad leader in Iraq."

  She motioned for the boy to stand and greet me.

  "Pedro Junior. We call him Pedey too."

  The boy looked up at me with the same gentle brown eyes I'd seen every day in Iraq for almost a year. The son of my brother in arms.

  I sat on my bed and leaned the crutches against the wall, then motioned for him to come closer. When he hesitated, I held out both arms. What should I say to him, this child I'd orphaned? It was hard to find words, but I had to say something. I owed it to his father.

  "Pedro Junior. You should be proud of the name. Your dad was a good man. Not just a great soldier but a great friend too. I hope you'll never know what war can do to a man, but your father never lost his kind spirit. He was like a priest to us all, even in the worst of times. Whatever happens, you should know this and never forget him."

  The boy finally came to me, snuggled close, and began to cry. What was I doing? I had no right. I should have saved his father instead.

  When we separated, he went back to his mother, who rested a comforting arm around his shoulders and patted down his thick, black hair, the only feature that made him look different from his father. But she never took her eyes off me.

  "They said you were with him that day, Freddie."

  I nodded. "He saved my life."

  "Was it quick? Did he suffer? I need to know. Otherwise I have dreams."

  "He died instantly," I said, sparing her the details.

  She crossed herself, then reached into her purse and pulled out a small package wrapped in crepe.

  "He told me if anything happened to him, he wanted you to have this."

  She unwrapped the paper and held up the archangel's medallion, a two-handed broadsword embossed on a Celtic cross.

  I shook my head. "I can't."

  "It's okay. I have one of my own. He had a copy made to take with him to Iraq. He was afraid to take this one into battle." She yanked at a chain around her neck and pulled out from her blouse the original medallion, identical to the other, but hers was made of gold. Then she offered the package to me again. "Please. It was what he wanted. You went through so much together, so many of you lost. Maybe this will bring you better luck in the rest of your life."

  I accepted the cross and chain and cradled them in my hand, then looked back at her.

  "I should have done more," I said. "I should have saved him."

  She touched my arm and nodded. "He told me you were like this, carrying the burden of others. He told me in emails and phone calls how much he worried about his Lieutenant Freddie, how you were a good man who cared about his troops, maybe a little too much. And when the first attack happened, how you were devastated, how you contacted the families and did what you could to help, how you blamed yourself."

  My expression froze, a mask of sympathy for the widow of my friend. I thanked her for her kind words, denying that I deserved them. But Jimmie's machine in my head began to whir.

  First attack?

  Time passed in a blur. They stayed a while. We told stories about her husband, the boy's father, trying to keep his memory alive. Then we hugged and made our tearful goodbyes.

  After they left, I collapsed on my bed, forgetting all the progress I'd made. Now I knew. I had gaps in
my memory and could no longer trust what I perceived to be real.

  I turned the medallion over in my hand and traced the edges of the broadsword.

  The first attack. So many lost. I had no recollection of it. It was like listening to a story from another world.

  ***

  The big day arrived, requiring pomp and circumstance. Dinah, Ralph, and Becky stood in formation, while Dr. B. removed the brace. I sat up on the examining table and gawked at my leg. The skin was ashen like a cadaver's and the muscles had atrophied from disuse. But I'd watched it degrade over time. That wasn't the worst surprise.

  Dr. B. had Ralph support my ankle as I swiveled around so my leg hung out over space. Then the big health aide gradually eased his grip and let gravity take over. I tensed. Would the muscle tear from the bone again? But my leg bent hardly at all.

  Becky saw my disappointment. "It's normal, Freddie. To be expected. You can't lock a leg straight for three months and not have it be stiff. That's my job to fix."

  They lay me back down on the table, while Becky brought over a metal device that looked like a draftsman's protractor.

  "Raise your knee as much as you can." It was an order.

  I did, but barely. She adjusted the bar of the protractor and frowned.

  "Twenty-nine degrees. Now raise your good leg."

  My left knee popped up effortlessly, a tower intent on humiliating its damaged twin. She measured again.

  "A hundred and thirty degrees. Your new goal. I'll get you as close to your good leg as possible, one degree at a time. But trust me. It'll be painful for the both of us."

  Chapter Twenty

  Into the Void

  Day twenty. As was tradition in the final ten days of anointment, the people began placing small wheels upon the parapet, first one or two, then dozens. Each wheel was powered by a series of hand-painted silk sails. Woven through their spokes was a parchment with the craftsman's scrawled prayer. Their greens and oranges and yellows lit up the parapet wall, challenging the gloom. Unlike the wheels of the watchtower, these were made to whistle when the wind blew, sending their supplications floating off into the air. Save us, oh Goddess, they seemed to say. As their numbers increased it sounded more like a wail than a prayer.