The Secret of Raven Point: A Novel

by Jennifer Vanderbes

  When it came Juliet’s turn to speak, she found herself describing Charlesport, the waterfront and the old houses, her father and Pearl. She shared the story of her science-fair entries, trying her best to distance herself from the awkward girl she had once been. “Oh, there, there, we give Juliet the blue ribbon!” all the men said. She spoke of Tuck—not about the telegram or her quest for him, but about their childhood together, their lemonade stands and yard forts, the rescue of Cher Ami. She proudly described the day when, at fourteen, Tuck saved a woman and her baby from a sinking car.

  Though living in a cold half darkness, Juliet thought she might never want to leave. She loved these men; she trusted these men. And they were forever bound, she knew, by the risks they’d all taken to save Barnaby’s life.

  Though Barnaby had recovered from his semicoma, he was oddly sparing with his words. He sipped at the wine and nibbled chestnuts, nodding along as the others told stories; he listened intently but seemed reluctant to speak about himself. It was possible, Juliet thought, that Barnaby had never been much of a talker; but she also wondered if, after what he’d been through with his squad, he’d simply grown suspicious of the world. She recalled what Munson had told her. If his own squad mates had strung him up, whom could he trust?

  Barnaby sat quietly in the corner and made drawings of Juliet, Willard, and Brother Reardon. Of the marionettes that hung from the ceiling. It was unclear what he understood of the court-martial, if he knew about the death sentence. If he had any idea of the dangers that lay ahead—for all of them—if they were caught, he gave no indication.

  But Willard had been counting the days, eager to get under way to Signora Gaspaldi’s. On the sixth morning, when Juliet hiked to the stream to fill their canteens, a cloudless sky hung overhead. A heron swooped over the water; white egrets stood basking in the winter sun. When she returned to the schoolhouse, Willard was upstairs, studying the large map of Italy.

  “The sky is clear,” he said.

  “I saw,” she said. She noticed that his pack was now leaning by the door. “You think the MPs have moved on?”

  “They had almost a week to scour this area. That said, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve been added to their round-up list. If Brilling somehow heard that I didn’t come back from my leave, he’ll have pieced it together.”

  “So how do we get to Signora Gaspaldi’s?”

  “On foot. We need to stay off the roads anyway.”

  “On foot,” Juliet repeated flatly, trying hard to hide her dismay. Even after days of rest, the idea of walking such a vast distance intimidated her.

  “Come here and look,” said Willard. He drew a line on the map, his pen gliding across the mountains. “We break it into two days, morning and afternoon increments. We rest when we need to. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  “I don’t have much of a choice, I suppose.”

  He shook his head and put his hand on her shoulder. “We used up all our choices a week ago,” he said.

  They slowly packed their belongings and boiled the last of the eggs. Willard scoured the nearby woods for two thick branches, which he topped with scraps of the canvas map and a pair of thick socks and gave to Brother Reardon as crutches.

  As they all left the schoolhouse, Willard patted the closed door as though in good-bye: they were all sad to leave it. They had at least two days of heavy walking ahead. They set out at first along the dirt road, but soon cut toward the woods so they could follow the line of the road but were hidden from vehicles.

  The sun was bright and the air was clear, and they walked together like an exploring party, pausing at times to take in their surroundings, enjoying the sun’s warmth on their faces, the flutter and rustle of wind through the trees.

  “We have the most beautiful mountains where I’m from,” said Barnaby, surprising them all. “The Green Mountains.”

  “In Vermont?” asked Juliet.

  “I’d like to get back there.”

  They were all silent a moment. A peregrine falcon fluttered loose from a tree and squawked toward the mountains.

  “Well, I’ve seen enough mountains this past month to last a lifetime,” said Juliet. “I miss the ocean.”

  “Tuck missed the ocean, too.”

  It was the first time Barnaby had voluntarily mentioned Tuck outside of the Pentothal sessions; he had listened to Juliet speak about him but said nothing, as though she were discussing a person he had never met.

  “What else did he tell you?” she asked.

  “That last night was the most we talked. But it was meaningful. He told a lot of football stories. It was like he thought it was a metaphor for life. I told him that, and he said no, it was life. He told some stories about your father. He talked about a place he and you used to go to hide out.”

  “Raven Point?”

  “Maybe. Maybe Raven Point.”

  Juliet heard a rumble in the distance and stopped. Willard and Brother Reardon were looking south, toward the road. A camouflaged jeep was bisecting the field; something seemed to be sticking straight up from it, and then Juliet saw it was a man perched in the back, swinging left and right, holding binoculars.

  They hit the ground and shimmied out of their packs. Juliet kept her face down and listened as the jeep grew louder. The ground was cold, and she looked at Barnaby. She saw fear in his face, the same fear she’d seen all those nights he was describing for Willard what had happened at the front. And yet he managed to reach out and clasp her hand.

  The sound of the engine faded, but it was a while before any of them moved.

  When finally they stood and brushed themselves off, the air had cooled, and a purple light overtook the sky. They moved, without discussion, even farther from the road into the tall woods. Brother Reardon moved slowly, navigating awkwardly on his crutches over rocks and felled trees. Every few feet Barnaby plucked a stick from the ground and snapped it in two. Gloom hung over them. They trudged along, Willard in the lead, frequently pulling from his jacket the portion of the map of Italy he had cut and folded, looking at the setting sun in an attempt to reckon their direction. At the sudden dash of squirrels before her, Juliet’s heart raced. She was grateful when, before full darkness had descended, Willard called out, “Look!” from ahead, pointing to a fissure in the base of the mountain.

  “I think it’s a cave,” he said.

  Carts and wheelbarrows cluttered the entrance; massive drills and hammers, powdered with dust, lay idle on the floor. It was an abandoned quarry. They removed their packs and settled between jagged walls of white marble.

  Barnaby, however, remained standing, his pack piled high on his back. Slowly, he looked at each of them. “This is wrong,” he said. “I don’t need to get back to Vermont. I should surrender.”

  Juliet and Willard and Reardon glanced at one another, unsure of how much they should say, how much Barnaby understood of what his surrender would mean. Did he think it meant only prison?

  “Absolutely not,” said Willard, rising to remove Barnaby’s pack.

  But Barnaby backed away. “Doc, you’re all limping around in the snow because of me, when you should be back at the hospital, helping the other soldiers.”

  “We’re going to bring you somewhere safe,” said Willard, exhaustion in his voice. “You and Brother Reardon can stay there for a while. We should be there within a day. Then Nurse Dufresne and I will go back to helping other soldiers.”

  “Prison can’t be worse than being up at the front.”

  “You’re not going to prison,” Willard answered—too sharply, because Juliet could see a shadow of understanding cross Barnaby’s face.

  “I see,” said Barnaby.

  “Let’s all get some rest, Christopher.” Willard gently took his elbow. “Doctor’s orders.”

  They made a small fire and took shelter from the cold, but a slight wind occasionally stirred the white dust from the floor, making them sneeze.

  Juliet slept fitfully, wondering if the MPs would retrac
e their tracks the next day. The ground was cold and hard, and each time she drifted off, she awoke to the icy chill of marble against some part of her body. She thought she heard footsteps and opened her eyes; she saw the vague outlines of two figures and sat up, thinking Barnaby and Brother Reardon were trying to leave.

  Then came Willard’s voice, an anxious whisper: “Juliet, stay still.”

  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, they caught the glint and glimmer of long objects.

  “Da sind noch drei. Es sind Amerikaner,” someone said. “Und es ist eine junge Frau.”

  A flashlight suddenly lit Willard’s face; he was standing, and on either side a rifle nestled into his temples. Sweat glazed his forehead.

  “Aufstehen. Alle aufstehen,” one of the Germans huffed.

  “We all have to stand,” Willard said, his voice flat.

  Juliet slowly pulled back her blanket and moved beside Willard. On the other side of the quarry, Barnaby and Brother Reardon raised their hands.

  The German shined his flashlight over Willard, stopping at his Red Cross armband.

  “Doktor?”

  The second German walked to Barnaby and Brother Reardon, examining the first’s head bandages, the latter’s silver lapel crosses. “Geistliche und Patienten,” he called. He signaled for Barnaby to sit on a wheelbarrow and gestured Brother Reardon toward Juliet and Willard. The Germans now stood side by side, in military stance, assaying their prisoners.

  “Ich bin Katholisch. Ich kann keinen Geistlichen töten.”

  Willard responded angrily: “Es ist gegen den Willen Gottes, irgendeinen von uns zu töten. Wir sind alle Zivilisten, und wir sind unbewaffnet. Wir sind keine Bedrohung für Sie,” he continued, though his voice now rattled with fear. “Wir sind nicht mehr mit der Armee. Wir sind alle Deserteure.”

  “Das sind wir auch, schätze ich,” said the first German, laughing, “aber wir sind immer noch Feinde.”

  “What’s going on?” Barnaby asked.

  Juliet watched the German who was speaking with Willard; he was a lanky man, almost equal to Willard in height, whose expression wavered between amusement and anger.

  “Keiner von uns ist eine Bedrohung für Sie. Der Mann hat eine Gehirnverletzung,” Willard insisted. “Ich bin sein Arzt, und sie sein Krankenschwester.”

  At this, the second German looked Juliet up and down, a strange smile curling his mouth.

  “What’s going on?’ Barnaby asked again. He gripped the sides of his wheelbarrow. “I said, what’s going on?”

  “Ruhe!” The first German fired at the ceiling, releasing a blizzard of white dust.

  Juliet watched as he reloaded his gun; she heard the click of the long chamber. He sneezed and wiped dust from his eyes. The other German tightened his grip on his rifle, aiming it firmly at Juliet’s chest, and then he stepped toward her and grabbed her waist, letting the rifle tilt away, pulling her into him.

  She heard an explosion, a shock of metal. She fell back. She heard fabric tear, bones crack; there was a snap of joints. Her own, she thought, until she heard a body thump to the floor beside her.

  The German who had grabbed her lay facedown, his back a tangle of innards. Behind him sat Barnaby in the wheelbarrow, a pistol in his lap, smoke rising from the chamber. The other German lay on the floor, his head crookedly upturned, a pool of blood gathering beside him. His chest was motionless. Willard stood against the wall, his eyes fixed on a bloody hammer in his hand.

  Juliet touched her chest, her arms, her stomach. She patted her face, her neck.

  “You’re okay,” said Willard.

  Brother Reardon moved slowly to Barnaby. “Why don’t you give me that, Christopher.”

  “I’m no coward,” Barnaby said angrily.

  “Not in the least,” said Brother Reardon.

  Juliet was still touching her body, confused. She couldn’t stop looking at the dead Germans. She gulped the cold, dusty air. Her chest rose and fell so forcefully, she thought it might burst through her shirt.

  “Where did the pistol come from?” Willard asked.

  The quarry was silent.

  “From me,” said Reardon.

  “Where did you get it?” Willard asked.

  “Liberata,” he answered calmly. “In Pistoia. She insisted we take it. All the children carry them now.”

  They dragged the bodies to the corner, blood streaking the marble floor. White dust settled on the corpses, their faces ghostly, dust mixing with blood to form congealed pink paste.

  God, thought Juliet, were they that close to the German lines? Or were there dozens, hundreds, roaming the Italian countryside, just as they were?

  “We better undress them,” said Willard. “Whoever comes across them, we’ll be safer if no one knows who they are. We don’t need a revenge party coming after us.”

  Juliet began to tug off their shirts, her hands shaking. She’d seen hundreds of corpses, but she kept expecting these would come back to life, grab her ankles, and drag her to the floor. She tried to stand as far away as possible as she pulled off the pants; from the pocket a dozen teeth clattered onto the marble floor, teeth of all sizes with gold fillings.

  “Are those human teeth?” she asked.

  “Reardon and I will take care of this,” said Willard, pulling her back.

  Willard plucked the teeth up one by one and shoved them back into the dead man’s pocket. He unlaced and removed the muddy boots, peeled off the socks, and shook free the men’s pants. He took off their identity tags. He dropped the clothing in the center of the quarry.

  “They’re no more German than the day they were born,” said Reardon, making the sign of the cross over each body. He handed Willard the pistol, and Willard checked the safety and tucked it into the back of his pants.

  Juliet turned to Barnaby, seated quietly on the wheelbarrow. “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded and began packing his bag, barely looking at her. “It’s what Tuck would have wanted me to do.”

  They headed northeast, trudging through frosted deadfall. The ground was frozen, and they held tightly to tree trunks and branches as they tested their footing on ice-crusted rocks. Juliet’s gloves snagged on bark, and within hours wool fringed her fingers.

  They walked in single file, in absolute silence, afraid their voices would reveal them, afraid they wouldn’t hear approaching footsteps.

  The image of the gun and the German kept returning to Juliet, and each time a wave of nausea forced her to stop in her tracks. For the first time she felt how quickly, how easily, she could die; a mere branch, snapping beneath the weight of snow, could take her life. The air itself, cold and silvery, seemed filled with peril. In all the tears she’d shed for Tuck and Beau and the hundreds of men who had died beside her, she had never before felt it had anything to do with her. She’d felt pity, not fear. But now she wondered: Was the darkness she saw when looking at them the shadow of her own death? She wanted to live; she knew that now in a way she had never before known. She would stay alive, yes, for no cause or reason, for no one but herself. She felt herself weighing, measuring, considering. She looked around at her friends. She cared for these men but she did not think she would be willing to die for them. She was not like Tuck. She saw it sharply: she was kind and caring, but if the horrid moment ever came, she would save herself. It was cowardice, the most natural and primal cowardice, and she could speak of it to no one. Self-preservation was the loneliest of instincts.

  By afternoon, they came upon tidy piles of white stones, the jagged remains of a long wall. Farther on, a vast basin, what might have once been a bath, yawned from the ground. Several smaller buildings looked more than a thousand years old. Cypress trees grew between what had once been houses, thick roots upheaving the foundations.

  They sat on the edge of an old cistern and ate cold K rations and candied chestnuts. As the food melted on Juliet’s tongue, she looked around at the ice-capped Apennines: How many peaks had they crossed these past few days? How many other p
eople were wandering the mountains now, bands of people trying to make their way to safety? And how many thousands had walked this cold, hard ground before them? During the Great War, or the Conquest of Rome, surely friends and families and neighbors had wandered this path, sat on this wall. Here they were, creatures of yet another brutal epoch. Even if they survived all of this, she knew history would swallow them, silently, as it did everyone.

  Quietly, solemnly, they packed up the scant remains of their food and continued walking. As night fell, stars piercing the black sky, they came upon a monastery. Willard shined his flashlight on a scrap of his map. “I know where we are.”

  Inside, the air was damp and mildewy. Willard flicked open his lighter, and a domed, frescoed ceiling came to life, cracks spidering from the center. The place had been ransacked—altars stripped bare, pews splintered, tapestries torn from the walls, stained glass splintered on the floor. After making a quick inspection to ensure they were alone, they hung blankets over the windows. The floor was crusted with bird droppings; abandoned nests clung to the eaves.

  They shook off their packs and pulled out their rations.

  Their food wouldn’t last more than another day, Juliet estimated.

  She assembled the stove and poured what was left of their kerosene. She struck a match, and a small blue flame leapt to life. Huddling close to the stove, they opened their cans.

  It was a quiet, somber meal, and when it ended, Willard wandered up a narrow flight of stairs.

  “With one eye in a dark cave,” Barnaby whispered, gazing up at the fresco, “I’m still a good shot.”

  “The army’s loss,” said Juliet.

  “The army can go to hell.” He lay back, his arms crossed behind his head, and closed his eye.

  As Reardon began arranging his bedroll, Juliet moved cautiously up the darkened stone staircase.

  “Dr. Willard?”

  At the top of the stairs she found him seated by a large bell that was green with oxidation. The rope had been cut, and bullet casings littered the floor. She settled beside him, facing the mountains. A stunningly bright moon presided over the sky.