Chapter Fifteen—The Piper
The autumn storm that had hit Courcelette was still raging as Una drifted back into consciousness. I'm not being rained on, but I can hear the thunder…where am I? Upon opening her eyes, she discovered that she was lying on an old bed in a little, low-ceilinged bedroom; where, she didn't know. The heavy beams of the roof above her led her to believe that it was either one of the small cottages she had seen in the village or on the surrounding farms.
My head hurts. There's some sort of cut on it. My foot hurts, as well…I've probably twisted it, which would be preferable to breaking it. Where am I? The last thing that I remember was the lightning…and that person in the cemetery…was it a person? Was it the Piper? No, I'm being silly again.
Una slowly raised her head up from the thin pillow and looked around her in the dim candlelight. Although the room itself seemed like her preconceptions of a French farm cottage, the furnishings did not. The only furniture was the narrow bed that she was in, one straight-backed chair, and a small nightstand stacked with books. There were no pictures on the walls. In short, it was a very drab little room.
I wonder what books are on the stand? I can see that the top one with the bouquet of little white flowers on it is a Bible, and that almost looks like a copy of Keats's poems underneath. I hadn't realized that many of the people around here spoke English all that well, let alone that they would want to read British poetry for enjoyment. My mysterious hosts. Well, they can't be any stranger than that Mrs. Amelia Pitman that Rilla and Jims met when they fell off of the train. At least we'll speak the same language, Una mused to herself. She tried to sit up so that she could inspect the room better, but her head hurt too much, causing her to sink back onto the pillow.
She could hear someone moving around softly in another room, as if they were trying to let her rest in quiet. Maybe this is the room that these people keep for strange Canadian women who wander around in cemeteries during rainstorms. Cemeteries…rainstorms…oh, no! I still don't have Shirley's ring! Frustrated, a small moan escaped her lips.
Almost immediately, the door opened, framing a tall figure in the weak light. "Are you awake now?" a masculine voice asked kindly, with no trace of a French accent. "I was beginning to wonder how hard you hit your head."
"Fairly hard, I think," Una smiled weakly. "It hurts rather fiercely, and so does my ankle."
The man stepped into the room. He looked to be about her age or possibly a few years older, with black hair that had a distinguished touch of silver to it. His grey eyes spoke of the capacity for either great joy or pain, although the latter seemed to be more familiar to him.
"We can try and fix that easily enough. When I carried you in, it looked as though you'd sprained it. I can get you something to soak it in." He looked at her curiously. "What brought you out to the cemetery on such a night? It's the worst storm we've had in months!"
Una felt rather embarrassed telling a complete stranger why she'd been prowling around in a thunderstorm, so she turned the tables on him. "Were you the Piper out there playing your flute?" she asked as defiantly as her throbbing head would allow her.
The man looked rather taken aback. "Yes, I was playing my flute…what do you mean by 'the Piper'?" he posed.
"I knew a poem about a Piper once," Una said slowly. "He played his flute and people followed him all over the world, wherever he went, even if it meant their death. But they followed…"
"No, I'm not the Piper," the man laughed dryly. "I know him…I know him quite well. We became personally acquainted in the War, but I'd seen him before that. I know exactly what you mean. I suppose I was playing my flute as one of his emissaries tonight. I play in memory of what happened here, years ago."
Una shivered.
"Are you cold?" the man asked. Una shook her head. "I didn't mean to bother you with my gloom and doom tales. Besides, you never did tell me why you were there."
"I was looking for my engagement ring," Una said, her face flushing. What type of fool lost an engagement ring? "I had come here to visit the grave of a family friend, and while I was here, I lost my ring. I didn't realize it until I was in the train station."
"What does your ring look like?" the man asked.
"It's gold with a sapphire," Una told him. "Have you seen it?"
"Might this be it?" the man answered, drawing her ring out of his pocket.
"Why, yes, it is. However did you find it?" she queried.
"I'm the self-styled keeper of the cemetery," her rescuer smiled. "I've made it my job to keep track of the grounds. Normally, I have what must be one of the simplest jobs in France. Imagine my surprise today when I found your ring." He held it up to the candle so as to read the inscription. "'SB to UM, 1932'. What would your name happen to be, ma'am? I assume that you are the mysterious UM."
"That would be a correct assumption," Una's eyes danced. Something about this stranger reminded her of Shirley, of days gone by in Rainbow Valley. "My name is Una Meredith."
The man's face seemed to grow pale, but that could have been the candlelight. "Una Meredith…what a lovely name. And what, pray tell, do you plan to change it to? At least, when one wears an engagement ring, other parties can expect a name change to be forthcoming."
Una thought to herself that although she should be horribly offended about a stranger asking her such personal information, it was surprising that she was only mildly affronted. "Blythe…Una Blythe. My fiancé's name is Shirley Blythe."
"And, Miss Una Meredith, soon to be Mrs. Shirley Blythe, where do you live? You don't seem to be particularly French." He looked at her intently.
"Neither do you!" Una retorted. Her head was aching worse than before, and the worm finally turned. "If it is any of your business, which I don't believe it is, I hail from Glen St. Mary's of Prince Edward Island in Canada!"
"It is my business, or at least, it used to be," the man said softly. He looked as though he was having a hallucination, with eyes that seemed to be seeing something long ago and far away. "Glen St. Mary's…does your sister Faith still live there? Miss Cornelia and Mary Vance? The…the Blythes?"
Hallucinations were in the air, Una decided. If it wasn't for the absolute fact that sixteen years before, there had been a certain charge by the Canadian army very near where she was staying, the stranger could have almost been… "Walter?" she whispered incredulously.
"Yes, Una?" he answered.