I’d saved the best for next. Should say “for the best,” because the word is replete with sarcasm.
“The mortar shells and hand grenades can do a number of uncomfortable things. Remove an arm or a leg. Blow off your head, in fact. During one attack—which didn’t work—I had to crouch in a shell hole with an officer who’d lost his head. I mean, lost it. All that were left were bloody shreds of his neck. Not too pretty a sight. Shrapnel can also blow out your guts.” I thought of Harold when I said that.
Then I hit them. “Mostly, of course, dead bodies are buried in a spot behind the trench. All the rain uncovers bodies, so they rot. The smell of that—well, lads, I’ll leave that for you to imagine. Not very nice. Can’t say I liked it much. You know who liked it, though? I mean what like it?”
I paused for emphasis.
“The rats,” I told them. “Big ones. Big as cats. Why were they so big? Because they ate the dead soldiers. I mean ate them. Gorged on them. They were especially fond of eyeballs and livers. Smacked their furry little lips as they devoured those goodies.” I may have exaggerated a little there. But I was pissed off at that threesome of rustic dumbbells. And I wanted to sicken them. Maybe I’d talk them out of enlistment. It wasn’t my intention. Still …
“You’ll enjoy shooting the rats; they explode nicely. Just don’t shoot them all—they warn you about attacks the filthy Boche are planning to launch.” I probably didn’t use that last word, memory diffused by eighty-two-year-old cloudiness.
But I went on. Deeply pleased (what a mean compulsion) by their obvious reactions—mouths agape, eyes staring and unblinking, bodies rigid.
“When I say ‘warn,’ I don’t mean the rats can talk,” I continued. “I mean they run away before the attacks begin. Little bastards must be psychic. You can have fun with them, however. Rat war. Throw the dead bodies at each other, watch them splat against faces if your aim is good.”
Another pause for dramatic emphasis. There definitely was a hint of Arthur Black–to-come in me.
“I don’t mean to tell you that the only unpleasant smell was that of rotting corpses. Not at all. There was also the odor of the cesspools—or as we called them, the shit pits. That’s rather unpleasant, too. Not to mention the lingering odor of poison gases—rotting sandbags—cigar and cigarette smoke—cooking food. All combined into one ghastly perfume of war.” I did say that; not bad for eighteen.
“Is that it? Not exactly.” I went on, “Mustn’t forget the lice. They lay eggs in the seams of your uniforms. Nasty buggers. Cause trench fever. Severe pain and fatal fever. Then, of course, the muddy trenches and the cold cause trench foot. Feet get blue and swollen, have to be amputated sometimes. Anything else? No, that’s all, lads. Best of luck. Slugs and Frogs, you can worry about on your own.”
I never found out whether they had enlisted or not. I only knew that I felt justified in my rant. Not that I felt any better about Magda—even Joe. But a percentage of the steam had been released.
Is that enough description of trench warfare? I told you I’d get around to it. Satisfied?
Chapter Eleven
It rained for three days straight afterwards. Straight? It never rained straight, either vertical or horizontal. It always seemed to fall at an angle, mostly right. And hard. Damned hard. I couldn’t sleep upstairs in the cottage because of the pounding on the roof tiles. I tried to sleep there, then after one restless night, tossed my straw-filled mattress (damp, of course) down to the first floor. The pounding on the roof was slightly more endurable there—especially with half a torn handkerchief stuffed into each ear.
Trouble was, with that arrangement, I thought I heard a distant party taking place, voices, laughter, banging noises, faint music. After a second night of that, I slept, exhausted, through the party. Enjoy yourself, I’m sleeping, I informed the far-off celebrants, whoever—or whatever—they were. It never crossed my mind that it was fay-eries. I’m not sure I believe it was. It was probably me.
At any rate, three days of constant rain. In the sky and in my brain. I was depressed. I attempted to convince myself that it was the dismal weather and the emotional hangover from my harsh rant to the three farmer boys. That failed to wash, however. I knew exactly what it was. Joe’s probably improvident warning added to my already strong-enough guilt regarding my behavior to Magda. How had I offended her? By simply hesitating to share that mattress with her? Was it that bad a gaffe? Well, it was. Otherwise, why would she have changed her tune so abruptly? Rats! I finally concluded. You did her wrong, however unintentionally. Was all lost? Likely. Her offense meter was too easily activated.
* * *
My excessive guilt resulted in a vision. Or, more conceivably, a hallucination. I knew a soldier who had experienced one, catching clear sight of his mother. So clear that he clambered out of the trench to embrace her, telling us, with a happy laugh, what he was about to do. Only to embrace a sniper’s bullet in his brain, poor foolish kid. (He was seventeen, had lied about his age in order to enlist in the service.) Could it have been Edward? I wondered. Had he seen Magda out in No Man’s Land, smiling, arms extended?
Because that was what I saw one night, waking from a heavy sleep. Standing downstairs in No Man’s Land (the cottage), smiling at me, arms extended, gesturing for me to go to her. I suppose I might have been chilled by the sight. I wasn’t. Even when she simply wasn’t there and I realized that she had, doubtless, been hallucinated. I felt warmed by the remembrance. She hadn’t really appeared to me, of course. I was certain of that. Nonetheless, the vision comforted me and made me vow to visit her again.
Three more days, now of sunshine, drying up the countryside. I decided that the time had come. I donned as passable an outfit as I could manage in the still-humid air of the cottage and started up the path once more. Anticipating, with intense pleasure, the prospect of seeing that lovely woman again.
By the time I’d reached the foot of the path to Magda’s house, my pleasure had degenerated to a state of intense disgust with myself. I’d let an obvious hallucination urge me to this foolish plan? Disgusting. Absolutely so. Naïve and disgusting. Almost as naïve and disgusting as letting Joe’s words affect me. A witch? An ancient crone, bad teeth and all, incessant cackling and cat conversing, wearing dark cerements, coned cap, and perched on a flying broom, eating little children? Sure. Made a lot of sense.
A lot of non-sense. She was a sensitive woman who had no desire whatever to see me again. Why would I even permit myself to consider such a stupid action? I’d insulted her. She did not care to let me in her house. I was a numskull for thinking it.
So what did I elect to do? My only excuse is this: I was eighteen. What more could be expected from my limited awareness? Nothing intelligent. Far from it. Irritated at myself, lamebrained to a fault, I decided to confront the faeries and spit in their wee folk eyes, defy their damned Middle Kingdom. Remember this—I really didn’t buy any of it. Joe’s words? Foolish. Magda’s words? Sincere but illogical. Oh, listen, folks. I knew I was being stupid, but I chose, with true teenage stubbornness, to ignore my calculated stupidity and “press on,” as the Brits like to say. So I did.
Almost to my end.
* * *
As I entered the woods, it was with a combination of bravado and trepidation. Over and over, I repeated my subconscious mantra: It’s nonsense, all nonsense. Although, down in the cellar of my brain, that little chump of an unsophisticate pestered me, or always, with the invariable query: How do you know? I didn’t. That was the trouble. So when there seemed to be an odd trembling of the tree leaves, I reacted with instant trembling myself. Oh, stop it! I fought back. It’s a damn breeze in a damn tree!
Explaining a bending of grass blades directly in front of me? Yes! I insisted mulishly. Natural explanation; nothing more. I walked on, trying to ignore the sudden chill I felt. Was that goose flesh rising on my arms? No! Well, yes. It was getting a little chilly. May. Northern England. Spring climate unpredictable. Yes. Good. Everything ex
plained. A desire to laugh at all the silliness of superstition. I giggled, picking at an insect crawling on my hair. Which wasn’t there. Then a second bug. Not there. Simple nervousness, I told myself. The body obviously connected to the—what, the skull? Well, to the nervous system. Right you are. What time was it? I should buy a watch. I might have been inside here for hours. Was I?
There was a sudden flash of movement to my right. I looked so quickly in that direction that I felt a painful crackling in my neck. Nothing there. A faerie running? Don’t be stupid. A squirrel, maybe. A rabbit. Calm down, White.
A flickering of light around me. Real? Or nervousness again? Couldn’t be hallucination, could it? Why not? I shivered. Someone was watching me. The woods were watching me. No, Alex, don’t be ridiculous. Woods do not have eyes. Calm down.
Then I thought I heard those party celebrants in the distance. Same sounds. Talking, singing, banging noises. Now that was disturbing. No, God damn it! I heard nothing but the inflaming of my brain. Don’t let it bother you, White old White!
Ah. Another person. An old woman carrying a basket, a dark shawl over her shoulders. “Hello!” I called, “Do you—?”
The words congealed in my mouth. The old lady was gone. I don’t mean stepped behind a tree or anything. I mean gone. Vanished.
Time to leave, I “calmly” instructed myself. I started to turn. But couldn’t. My legs were glue. I couldn’t move. Overhead, the foliage of the trees began to shake. Violently. And there was no wind. None at all. The tree leaves, twigs, even the branches were whipping loudly in the non-wind.
Which is when, giving up to dread, I sobbed. Aloud.
Then cried out, shocked and terrified, as a powerful hand grasped my left arm and jerked me around.
Magda.
“Come,” was all she said.
And, abruptly, she had turned me and was running me back through the woods, her hand so tight on my arm that it pained. While she ran, wordless, she took something from her coat pocket and, reaching around me, dropped it into the right-hand pocket of my jacket; I had no idea what it was. “What is that?” I asked. Breathless by now.
“Keep running,” was all she said.
I felt a mixture of relief and gratitude suffusing me. I was with her again, and she was saving me. From what? I no longer doubted, my mantra shattered. Whatever it was, there was definitely something in the woods. Something dangerous. And Magda was rescuing me from it, bless her. A witch? She could be Satan’s sister, for all I cared.
Now she was doing something else as we ran. And ran and ran and ran—the damned wee folk seemed to have lured me a football-field distance from the path. To my perplexed surprise, I saw that with each long stride, she was throwing white flowers to each side of our rush. I didn’t ask her why she was doing it. I was sure she had a reason.
Now I was beginning to notice (I’d have had to be deaf not to notice it) an increasingly thunderous noise like that of a herd of stampeding elephants crashing through a bamboo forest. I had an urge to look back and see what it was, but common sense dissuaded me. She wouldn’t want me to, I thought. That alone was enough to dissuade me. So, horrified, gasping for breath, a terrible aching in my hip and a stabbing pain in my side (I didn’t know about stitches in those days), I sprinted on, partly of my own volition, largely by the powerful yanking of my racing savior.
* * *
When we finally reached the path, I collapsed, both legs devoid of strength. Magda made a soft sound of alarm, trying to prevent my fall. No use. I dropped to one knee, then the next, and in a moment, I was sitting on the ground, palms down in an attempt to keep from totally sprawling. I looked up, blinking dizzily. “Whoa,” I muttered.
“You feel strange,” she said, she didn’t ask.
“Very strange.” I nodded, sure that my head would topple off if I nodded too energetically. “Never felt like this before.”
“I know,” she said. How do you know? I wondered.
I tried to stand but couldn’t. I remained recumbent. “What happened?” I asked, looking for a simple answer to drive away the darkness of my senses.
I didn’t get it. “You did a foolish thing,” she told me.
There it was. Introductory verification of what I didn’t want to accept. “Oh?” I murmured, sounding utterly stupid.
“You know what you did,” she said. “Did you think you could defy them?”
Them, I thought. The very word made me shudder. I drew in a shaking breath. “They’re really there, then,” I acknowledged, changing my life—not knowing it.
“Of course they are,” said Magda. “Didn’t that man—the one who repaired your roof—warn you?”
I had to admit it. “Yes.”
“But you ignored him. Why?” she said.
I couldn’t tell her. Well, you see, he said that you’re a witch, and that made me angry. Right. Perfect answer. If she demanded further explanation, I’d tell her that I was so upset by what I’d told the three farmer boys that I wasn’t thinking straight. Not that much of an excuse either, but better than the witch revelation.
So all I said was, “I don’t know. I just wasn’t thinking.”
She was so quiet that I felt the need to speak. “I saw an old woman,” I told her.
“She wasn’t real,” Magda replied. “She was one of their tricks, I warned you about that.” (Had she? I couldn’t remember.) Her tone was parental and, in spite of everything, old bells were jangled and I could sense myself bristling. She could see it, too.
She gazed down at me in further silence, and I felt a dreadful sense of guilt. I didn’t speak, however. No reasonable comment had occurred to me. Don’t look at me like that, I thought. I felt certain that she knew I was lying about why I went into the woods. Or, at least, withholding the truth.
At last (it seemed such a long time) she asked, “Do you think you can make the house?”
Make the house? I must still have been semi-groggy from the frightening incident because the phrase made no sense to me. I stared at her. Then made another blundering remark as her question suddenly made sense to me. Well, almost. “I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s pretty far away.”
“No, it’s not,” she countered. “You can make it.” Make it? Reach it! Yes, of course. But it is far away, I thought.
“Come along,” she said gently. “It’s only up the path.”
Which is when I realized that the house she was referring to was hers. A burst of further gratitude laved through my bones. She was not expecting me to “make it” to my cottage. Generously, she was inviting me back to her house. God bless us, every one! As Tiny Tim exulted. Or said, anyway.
Chapter Twelve
By then, the wave of dizziness had subsided, and I decided I could stand. Magda helped me to my feet. As I put weight down on my right leg, I hissed with pain. “What is it, dear?” she asked. The anxiety in her voice was music to my ears.
“My war wound,” I told her, trying to sound comically melodramatic and failing completely.
“What happened?” she asked worriedly. I told her about the grenade explosion in the trench, not mentioning the even more horrendous wound incurred by Harold Lightfoot. I let her believe my wound was solo, relishing the look of sympathetic concern it brought to her face. “You poor darling, it must have been terribly painful. I wish I could carry you to the house.”
She held my left arm again and placed her right arm around my waist as we headed for the path to her house. I confess (to my shame) that I probably limped more exaggeratedly than needed. But I was eighteen, folks. I’d just been through a ghastly experience. And my companion was a beautiful scarlet-haired woman who was redolent with sympathy. So I milked it, kid that I was.
“What really made you enter the woods?” she asked. Was she already suspicious of my initial explanation?
I gave her answer number two—the Farmer Boy Triplet account. All right, they weren’t triplets. I said they were, immediately dreading the possibility that she’d find out
it was a pathetic fib. But I went on, once more, milking the moment. Not that it needed that much lactose-evoking. My account to the three had been accurate. Cruelly stated but accurate. Magda’s reaction was strong. “Oh, no more,” she said, pleading. I realized, as she spoke, that my words had probably brought to the surface traumatic memories of her son and what he may have suffered in the trenches.
To change the subject, I reached into the right-hand pocket of my jacket—my hand rubbing hers as I did—and felt around. My fingers touched the object, soft and seemed to be round. I drew it out and looked at it. A flower, white. “What’s this?” I asked. It was mere curiosity.
Magda stopped so abruptly, it almost made me stumble. The expression on her face was indecipherable. (Good word, that.) Had I gone amiss again, said something that I shouldn’t have? How was that possible?
“I found it in my pocket,” I thought I explained. “You put it there when we were running.” That didn’t explain my question, but it was the best I could do.
“And why do you think I did that?” she asked. Now I guessed at her reaction. She assumed that I was, somehow, mocking her. Mocking? No way. She’d saved me, probably my life, why would I dream of—? No, impossible.
“Well,” I answered, sensing what she wanted me to say. “Some kind of protection.”
That loosened her expression. “Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly right.” I felt such relief that I scarcely heard the words of what else she said. Something about primrose—what the flower was. Something about faeries (that damned word again) being so fond of primrose that she thought it might delay their pursuit. Which, apparently, it had. “That’s all it takes?” I remember asking. Subconsciously, I already accepted the explanation. She saved me from … what? I didn’t dare to consider the possibilities.
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