Return of Souls

by Andy Remic

  When he returned, Orana looked at him with her head tilted to one side. She smiled, unsure, and then suddenly said, “I was sent to find you, Robert. I . . .” She seemed to struggle with the language. “I want—need—you to come with me, come with me to see my family. They are in terrible danger. All my people are in danger! I have visions, sometimes, when I am in the woods. I see soldiers, thousands of soldiers on a vast beach, their boots sinking in sand, under flapping banners and flags of red.”

  She glanced up. Jones was staring at her, his face unreadable. She looked back at the flames.

  Jones dipped a bowl into the water and took a long drink. He said, “Your people are in danger? From the army with red flags?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not understand,” said Jones, and moved around the fire to sit beside her. And then her head was on his shoulder, and he could sense, rather than see or hear, her crying. Her tears soaked into his shirt. Her arms encircled his waist. And they sat there by the fire, and she told him everything as he listened in grim silence.

  “It is the war,” she said. “The endless, horrible war. It has been raging for ten years. Two massive, endless, nameless armies, sweeping across the world, fighting and killing and dying . . .

  “It is a creature, a beast with a broken back. The war began with two nations, each with various alliances. They are called Narava and the Tonrothir Empire. There was an assassination of royalty, a Tonrothir prince, which led to the first skirmishes. This then escalated to all-out war, and with each passing year, more and more countries were absorbed into the unholy mess. The broken creature feeds, and expands, and grows and lives and kills!

  “It feels like it has raged forever. Whole countries have fallen, trampled into mud and dust, destroyed beyond all recognition.” She looked up at Jones then, her eyes red with tears. “You know what I am telling you, for it has happened in your land . . . Is it the same war? Do you know the countries of which I speak?”

  “No,” said Jones, shaking his head.

  “The Naravelles are now the most powerful force. They can field maybe one, one and a half million men. And they have found religion; the war has given them religion.” She spat the last word. “They worship the Old Gods . . . the Blood Gods, the Grey Gods. They fight a holy war now, millions of men, and yet not one truly knows why they fight.”

  “How far away are the battle lines?” asked Jones, and a coldness had settled within him; a coldness had taken his heart in an iron gauntlet grasp.

  “Many, many leagues,” said Orana. “I travelled far, from over the mountains, searching for you. My ghost. My dream ghost.” She smiled, narrow lips. “But my family . . . my people, they are trapped; they are bound by honour in their valley. Our leader has sworn allegiance to Femoria, part of the Tonrothir Empire, thus incurring the wrath of Narava . . . I dream, I dream of their red flags sweeping across our people, their swords and guns cutting down people wherever they stand, their steeds churning earth to mud, fire and smoke filling the skies and the world.”

  “You have guns?” said Jones. Moments earlier, he had been dreaming of Orana, of holding her, kissing her, maybe one day spending his life with her; but now his world had been turned around once more, shattered. He had started to think, to dream, that the dark-walled castle was a place of sanctuary, of hope, an asylum from evil where devil creatures could not enter. And even if he were dead, or dreaming, he could spend eternity there, away from blood and death and horror . . . with Orana by his side.

  But that was not to be.

  He could feel himself being dragged into the Great Game once more, and he shook his head with gritted teeth, his mind spinning down.

  “We have guns,” said Orana, “but your bullets. They are strange. They are different. Made from metal . . . I am cold, Robert. Why am I so cold?”

  Jones hugged her tight and could feel her young, strong body through her clothes. His head rolled back and he stared at the sky, stared at the grey clouds, and listened to the wind.

  The fire crackled.

  “I saw you in a vision,” said Orana. “I dreamed of you, here in this castle, across the mountains. I set out to find you, to bring you to my people, because you can help us . . .” And she was saying words that Jones did not want to hear, for with those words, she was binding him with ropes greater than steel, and with those words, he knew he was being sucked into the whirling depths of madness he had only so recently escaped . . .

  “You can help us,” said Orana, gazing at him. “You have the key to the Stoneway. You can help us, help us defeat the oppressor, help wipe the red flags of the Naravelles from the face of the world!”

  “No,” whispered Jones, frowning. “I have no key; I don’t know what you’re talking about! Can you not see? It is more death, more killing, more of the same insanity . . . I left it behind, left it all behind. I cannot go back, cannot.”

  Orana said nothing. She cried softly on his shoulder, and her tears were hot through his shirt, and he felt bad right down to his bones.

  “It is beyond the Stoneway,” whispered Orana, “a Beast that can end the war! You can make it all come real, Robert. You make it happen; you can save millions of people—you can be a saviour—not a destroyer!”

  Jones kissed her hair, and she froze.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered.

  “No,” she said, and looked up into his eyes through her tears, and then her arms were around him and they were strong and warm, and Jones allowed himself to lie down by her side and he could feel her breasts pushing through his shirt and he closed his eyes; he loved her, loved her suddenly and fiercely, and because he loved her he could not let her do this, could not let her give herself away because he would help anyway, would help because he had nowhere else to go, nowhere else to turn and he discovered the frightening truth in a flash of purity which speared his brain. He did not care about the war. He no longer cared about the millions of people and their dreams and their deaths, because his blood was hot in his veins and he was weak, he was weak, he was weak with longing and desire and she was so warm beside him and above him and her kisses on his neck were beautiful and intense and she was crying and he hated himself for not having the strength to say no, and he was falling into ecstasy and they were naked together on the blanket, their skin soothing together, their bodies together, moving, writhing, moving, the heat and the sweat and the warmth mingling and he could not get the war out of his mind because they were the same, they were as one, the war and his love were life and death and death and blood and they mixed and conjoined, and she screamed out in ecstasy and his hate ran deep deep deep through his corrupted veins, and in his mind a coldness centred on his soul for this was all wrong, they were loving for the wrong reasons and he knew it was a fact and she knew it was a fact only she thought she was buying him, persuading him, building his strength and loyalty when in fact she was destroying his strength and strengthening his weakness . . . she was hot and wild around him, swallowing him, taking him to another realm of fantasy and ecstasy. And he was lost within the maze of lust which had usurped his mind, and he could not escape, did not want to escape, and their passion was high and her smell filled his senses like some thick perfume, and he was floating in another rhythmical realm of intensity and violence and they were together and he was riding a creature of wood, or being ridden, its cumbersome legs powerful as it churned through mud and leaves and he was astride and within the beast, and the beast was astride him and he could feel the heavy thump of its heart between his legs, could see steam snorted from its great bark nostrils and creatures moved within the depths of the forest with grey eyes peering from dense green darkness, their snouts hissing and snorting at this intrusion into their world their land their place of worship, and he was an intruder violator reaper of the land and he was not welcome; their eyes gleamed, he saw them dancing through the trees, twisting and cavorting, walriders, only now they were as one, as one, moving, on the castle floor, moving, softly, moaning, animal, sweat, and he
r nails clawed his back and they arched together as one, one beast, joined, formed, a Whole, the drug in their veins powerful beyond love and death and blood and soul and in that moment, in that smallest of atomic divisions Jones was caged and lost, and he realised that ever since hearing her scream he had been lost to her, hopelessly in love with her, only he did not care. He did not care.

  The darkness fell like ash, cold and silent, drifting down after the fires of a burning city had gone out. Clouds shifted uneasily above the trees, shadows infecting the castle walls with pools of ink, and finally tumbling across two sleeping figures huddled under a warm horse blanket.

  The fire burned low, murmuring.

  The mound moved, a ripple, and a slim figure slipped from beneath the blanket and pulled on clothes. And then she was gone, blending with the ink darkness and velvet shadows, absorbed, like a creature of the night.

  Part Three

  Return of Souls

  No Man’s Land.

  Time unknown.

  JONES BURIED HIS FACE in Orana’s hair, in her warmth, in her very essence, her body and soul, and then he slept . . . and dreamed.

  The jolt made him scream, and then he was in the mud and realised Bainbridge was there, pinning him down as bullets whined overhead like rabid insects and machine guns echoed and boomed from distant Hun lines.

  “Keep still, lad,” hissed Bainbridge.

  Jones watched his old friend and wanted to cry out, wanted to say to him how much he missed the man! But the words would not come out, and all he managed was a choking sob before Bainbridge, with a grunt, heaved the wounded young Tommy onto his shoulder and set off again under cover of gloom and broken black trees and thick, drifting smoke.

  “We’ll get you back soon,” came Bainbridge’s voice, a ghost voice echoing in smoke, “and we’ll have some gyppo, eh, lad, and you can pay me the bloody money you owe me . . . Are you awake, Jones? Stay awake, lad!”

  Jones wanted to say yes; he wanted so desperately to tell Bainbridge that he was all right, that he was awake, that he was a fully functioning British soldier . . . but a pain in his belly gnawed him, eating him, burning him, and his words became trapped in his solid throat, and his mouth refused to work on rigid tendons of chain-link steel.

  Bainbridge cursed and hit the ground again, depositing Jones in the mud with a jolt. Bainbridge slapped Jones’s burnt cheek, and the young Tommy groaned.

  “Thank God you’re not dead!” hissed Bainbridge, eyes flashing with that madness Jones remembered and loved. Bainbridge used these few moments of inaction to reload his rifle.

  Shots echoed to their right, and Bainbridge sighted down his rifle and triggered several shots, operating the bolt each time. There came more return fire, and Bainbridge fired again. A bullet whined nearby and kicked up mud.

  “Come on, lad,” whispered Bainbridge. “It’s too hot here. If we stay, we’ll end up with a serious bellyache!”

  Crawling through the mud, he dragged Jones along, occasionally pausing to fire a shot into the smoky gloom. Jones couldn’t see the targets, couldn’t see anything as the smoke and darkness descended around the two soldiers like a cloak, and he felt they were alone, completely alone and lost, dreamlike wanderers in a parallel parody of No Man’s Land.

  The smash of crumps boomed in the distance. The ground shook. Flares went up, and Bainbridge ducked his head and hissed, “Keep down, lad,” as the sky illuminated with an eerie white glow.

  Jones, through his haze of pain and grogginess, did not keep down; he gazed up at the flare-light, sparkling, beautiful, clean, and white amongst the filth and depravation of war . . . and his gaze swept the battlefield and he could see the walriders dancing, swirling, cavorting through the mud, a mockery of everything that happened, their claws leaping onto fallen black trees and then onwards and on towards the crawling soldiers . . . Jones wanted to scream, wanted to drag at Bainbridge, to point, to shout, “Those are the beasts that have haunted my nightmares!” and he wanted to shoot them, to fill them with bullets, but he no longer had his rifle, and Bainbridge had his head down, hands over his helmet, hiding hiding hiding from the blaze of spinning bullets and hot metal shrapnel—Jones opened his mouth but could only groan—words would not come, and the fire in his belly became worse, much worse, and he felt his cheek connect with cold mud, and it splashed in his eyes with grit, and it was in his mouth, all slime and earth and death, and he could not move, could not move, but could see the creatures of nightmare dancing closer and closer. They carried guns with short barrels, and they began to fire and bullets slapped the mud and pinged from an old stone wall, and Jones closed his eyes . . .

  And felt a jolt.

  Movement.

  He opened his eyes—to see the world upside down, all arsapeek—and he was over Bainbridge’s shoulder, could see his own arm hanging limp and useless and his uniform stained with blood. Am I hit? he thought idly. Have I been shot? And with each one of Bainbridge’s steps, the pain in his belly made him want to puke, to heave, and he felt bile rising in his throat, only it wasn’t bile, it was thick and salted and he retched and a dark stream poured from his mouth, but it wasn’t vomit, it was blood, and it gushed from him and he began to panic because it wouldn’t stop, and he was gasping for air as blood heaved from him and his eyes watered as Bainbridge stumbled on through the smoke, through the mud, and the pain in his belly was whole, cold, metal and he screamed a scream of blood and hate and rage against the beast that was No Man’s Land and the War.

  Castle Shell. “Ghosts.” 31st. October 1917.

  JONES AWOKE, EYES WIDE, and found he was very cold. He took great breaths of air—his lungs hardly pained him now, aided by the miracle healing properties of the unnamed berries—and his hands roamed over his body looking for wounds, searching out bullet holes, feeling for that wet squelch of blood . . . He remembered Orana and looked for her. She was not there. He groaned and sat up, the cold blanket falling from him . . . and he was naked beneath the blanket.

  Reaching out, he grabbed his shirt and pulled on the coarse garment, and then, taking a deep breath, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, pulled on his trousers, and with bare feet moved into the stable, dragging out two hefty chunks of wood.

  With care, he coaxed the embers back into life, fed a few twigs and later the heavy chunks. Once the fire was hot, he sat before it, a pain in his belly making him wince and think back to his dream, which had been so vivid, so real.

  “Orana?” he shouted.

  His voice echoed around the courtyard, and only the grim stare of the tower windows answered his cry. His words faded into stony silence.

  When he was warm, he found his boots and pulled them on, then looked up at the dark sky. Heavy clouds had gathered and a chill wind blew, howling desolate around the dark stone sentinels. Rain was coming, and Jones gathered his few belongings and moved them into the stable. He built a small fire just inside the door, transferring burning wood from the outside circle.

  He sat in silence, waiting for the rain, a cool breeze ruffling his hair, caressing his scarred cheeks. He thought about Orana. Where had she gone? Why did she not answer his shout? Fear suddenly touched him. Had she left the castle? Left him alone? Fled in disgust after their night together, after their lovemaking?

  Jones wanted to find her, to be with her despite hating himself for his actions. What he felt was a kind of taking advantage of the situation. But then, she was an adult, and they’d been caught up in the moment. Forced together by circumstance, and then simply flowing with the moments as a river flows towards the sea.

  He shivered.

  So, why did he feel so awful?

  It began to rain.

  The fire outside the stable sizzled and Jones scanned the towers, looking for signs of life, of love, looking for Orana . . . for any sign of her presence. But she was not there.

  “She’ll come back, lad,” said a voice. It was gentle, a man’s voice, and Jones closed his eyes and groaned, running his hands thro
ugh his hair.

  Jones whispered, “No! Don’t do this to me, Bainbridge . . . Don’t haunt me . . . Leave me alone!”

  Jones looked up, head snapping back, around, eyes searching. He was alone, crouched in the doorway to the stable. He took hold of his SMLE for reassurance and peered out into the rain. The cobbles had gone dark, stained like blood. The dark skies oppressed him.

  He brooded for a while, gazing at the heavens. The rain fell relentlessly now, and finally, the fire in the courtyard went out, spitting streamers of smoke, and the world seemed suddenly a very dark place. Jones pulled his blanket around his shoulders and shivered. He prayed to God Orana had not fled back to the woods. And yet a part of him half-wished that she had . . . Maybe then, the jagged stain of his guilt could be erased, forgotten, lifted from his soul.

  Maybe then he could think about getting home . . .

  “Hey, I’ve missed you, lad,” said the voice again, and Jones whirled in his sitting position, horse blanket falling from his shoulders as his rifle slammed up and a shot echoed with a flash of fire from the muzzle.

  The bullet smashed into the back of the stable, kicking up stone dust and wood splinters.

  Silence followed.

  “Don’t be so touchy; I only meant it in a friendly manner! No need to go shooting at your old pals from Blighty! Come on, cheer up, lad!”

  Jones swallowed, and closed his eyes. “Am I going mad?” he whispered.

  “Bugger that, lad. We’re here . . . We’re with you . . .”

  Jones opened his eyes, operated the bolt action on his rifle, and got slowly to his feet. “Where?” he croaked. “Where are you?”

  “Here. With you.”

  Jones moved towards the back of the stable, but it was deserted. When the voice came, it came from near the fire.

  Bainbridge chuckled. “Bastards thought we were dead, eh, George?”

  “Aye,” said Webb. “But we don’t die so easy, not chaps from the British Infantry!”