"I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood

It´s lips in the field above are dabbled with boold-red heath.

The redd-ribbd´d ledges drip with a silent horror of boold,

And Echo there, whatever is ask´d her, answers " Death".

-Tennyson


A rippling light, subtle and fragile, illuminated a large house, a house with a wide porch with with comfortable plush chairs, and a table.

There was large and verdant garden, and well-kept flower beds with daffodils in the spring, large peonies in the summer, and plush roses, white, pink, and symbols of intense victorious love, dark blood red.

The sounds of washing dishes and cooking were heard from the open window. Light bright bells rang, from a place one boy had named Rainbow Valley. A subtle, sensitive boy who loved poetry and beauty with all his soul.

Anne knew deep in her heart that Walter was her favorite of all her seven children. Although as parents shouldn't have favorites, she still had Joy, for so little time, only a day, and Walter, and Gilbert had Di, and Jem. Anne raised her bright gray-green eyes toward the gray morning sky, and stepped barefoot into the garden, the morning dew feeling cold on her feet.

Gilbert had been at work all night again, as Glen was in the flu season, half of the Rosemary choir members were in its grip, so for a couple of weeks, the choir had been short, no choir pieces.

A slight slender white-clad figure framed by lace curtains walked up the window, and lifted the shash up. Rilla there cared for little Jims, the boy was really sweet, blond, full of pranks, and Rilla had really reared him, brilliantly, refusing help, and relying only on Morgan, and sometimes Susan. Their carefree fun-loving girl had, now in these demanding years, grown into a woman with a woman's secrets, and hidden pains. Rilla's soft soprano echoed from the window as she hummed, of a romantic Scottish waltz melody often played before the war, at the Lighthouse of the Four Winds, at Lewinson's Dances, which were very popular among the youth of Glen.

Shaking the blades of grass clinging to her dress, Anne walked back and forth in the garden in flexible steps, talking to her flowers, the flowers being witnesses to her anxiety, that came and went like the endelss tide, had always done so. Anne touched the bright yellow, daffodil petal with her finger, and for a casual observer like Susan or Gilbert she seemed to have sunk into her dreams, bulding castles in Spain, or spinning a new plot to her various writings, but in reality she was in deep a fragmentary recollection, of a different era, one that she had escaped, by only a hair. The Alysum years, or during the Hammonds, when everyday life was dodging, shouting, and creeping silent fear.

Time and years are gracious to children, and to young people, as she herself knew, but still Anne had never told anyone, not dear Marilla, or blessed Matthew, how deep her certain fears were, not even the gracefull love of Green Gables could fully melt them. Nature, lush, and constantly renewed, helped, it calmed the echoes. Therefore, coming and staying in Green Gables, and village community of Avonlea had been a real blessing, for the harsh, and cruel city environment could have broken her, in time perhaps.

Sometimes when she looked at Mary Vance at church, now well fed and cared for, Anne shuddered, for the stories, and the little lies the girl had told her children, were not lies at all, they were the truth, the truth she had also experienced, in part. The truth she had utterly wanted to forget when she got to Green Gables, but those echoes were in the background, always.

The ambition of her youth and her rivalry with Gilbert were, in part, an escape, a desire to ensure, that she would gain for herself a position which no one above could deprive her of own work, teaching molding young minds, was a powerful tool to be used, and Gilbert, his devotion and love to her, despite years of cold shoulders, and gentle waiting, and finally all-encompassing soft love, like sudden radiant sunshine after relentless rain. A happiness was found and made, and their family, which increased year by year.

Gilbert and her were the pillars of the community, in Glen St Mary, Gilbert a respected and overworked physician, and she former Anne Shirley, and orphan, was now had been for many years Anne Blythe, the physician's wife, a graduate of high honors in English from Redmond, a BA, former principal of Summerside high school, and a member of the local school council, in Glen and a helping hand on many committees, and their children flourished and conquered the world, academically, or otherwise.

Yet at times, Anne looked at Gilbert, who slept beside her, a man who was so charming and talented, and wondered if Gilbert was really happy with his life as a doctor in the village community.

In those black moments, Anne got up, toured the house, and checked that the children were all right, then, once, she saw the reflection of the cross sleeping on the face of young Walter, as he had fallen asleep again near Tennyson and Shelley, the volumes were open. With a light hand, Anne had moved the books from the bed to the table, and had noticed a paper on Walter's desk that read with a childish handwriting,

"as I grow up I want to become a famous poet, for beauty will be my leading star in the world, no adventures like Jem hankers for."

From that moment on, Anne had done her best to encourage her son, they had discussed poetry, and as Walter grew older, and years passed, Anne also encouraged her son to study languages other than English, for poetry was found in all the languages of the world. At the time, Ingelside echoed music, Rosemary taught Di and Rilla to play the piano, and Walter fell in love with Mozart's music, all that delicate shimmering classism and light in it.

Anne returned from her memories to the present moment, with a small and sad sigh she folded, one white rose, from the bench, took her shawl, and set out to walk the reddish road, toward the church, and the cemetery. Light, but fierce wind tore her skirts, as she walked onwards.

The tomb on the sunny slope was small and grassy, the name in it was, now faded, but still visible, small litchen and moss grew in the stone, like nature it self wanted to claim her final resting place to its own purposes. Joyce Blythe (1890) With trembling fingers, Anne dropped a white rose on the grave of her firstborn child, and as her tears fell, she whispered, " Joy, my darling, happy birthday."

Susan was sitting crocheting, a blanket on the porch, her friendly face was sad as she handed tea to Anne and said, "Ms. Doctor dear, you must have gone to see our white lady. Well God takes, and gives, and that you can tie to. There is more tea in the pan, and fresh gingerbread is coming in the afternoon, and I'm preparing the cake for next week's Laidies Aid meeting. "

Anne found herself mechanically nodding to Susan as she discussed the village news and the terms of the Treaty of Versailles, which had been in the headlines for weeks. The war was over, but it would not bring her children back.

The soft sun lit up the garden, and a strong breeze shook the leaves of the trees, the afternoon twilight descended.

Ingelside's everyday life revolved around its own course, Anne had observed that Rilla was startled every time the phone rang, for Gilbert, or when the mail came. She paled and blushed, and denied doing such a thing, often she ran out with light steps towards the Rainbow Valley or the parsonage where Una sat, sewed and cared for Bruce, or played the piano, constantly.


Then one rainy day, a package arrived in Ingelside.

It had traveled a long way, it had a lot of official stamps.

With trembling hands, Anne opened the thick strings, and the paper dampened by the rain.

From there, a metal box with a letter was revealed, stating in an official tone.

"The Royal Canadian Army is now handing over the secular property of W. , a soldier who fell in the battle of Flers Courcelette on 15.9.1916. On this date, and year 1919 as a result of the end of the war to his relatives in accordance with his military will."

The letter dropped from Anne's hand, and Susan found her unconscious, on the living room floor, a few steps from the metal box.

Gilbert ran from his study, alarmed by Susan's cry. Gilbert didn't notice the box, or the letter, his only focus was Anne's pallor, and a passionate pulse, on her delicate wrist. After a time of perceiving eternity, Gilbert noticed his wife's eyes widening, and a bright familiar gaze lit up her beloved's eyes, and Gilbert heard a silent whisper, "Walter."

Hearing that name, Gilbert glanced out the window, the fall wasn't glowing, it wasn't September. So softly Gilbert asked "Anne-girl what do you mean by Walter?" A blazingly challenging gaze, as frantic as young Anne in her braids had struck the chalkboard on his head, met Gilbert's eyes, and struggling Anne pointed to a letter on the floor and said, "The Army decided to hand over Walter's estate to us now, it's in that box, I don't know whatever it is, I haven't opened it yet. "

Gilbert grabbed the letter gently, as if it were full of nitroglycerin and quickly read the lines on the paper. "Strange why we weren't informed about this before? But the army is full of bureaucratic rules and red tape." Susan, meanwhile, had made strengthening tea in the living room and Gilbert was carrying a box on the table.

Completely plain metal box, slightly bumpy and worn.

Taking a deep breath, Anne opened it.

A light scent, like Lavender, which had crumbled, flooded from it. Sniffing the air Susan said, "I sent Walter small bags filled with lavender so he would have homey scents there, too, that might have some of leftovers."

Tears flooded in Anne's eyes as she looked at Walter's legacy, a few poems, a notebook, and his medal, as well as pieces of paper in one corner that looked like photographs. One poem was completely finished, others were not, just some fragmentary images.


A few weeks later, Anne was walking in the Rainbow Valley, and the moonlight shone between the birches, and the creek shimmered soothingly.

Anne sat on a large rock, staring at the hazy sky, she recited last verses of Walter's poem The Aftermath. The unadorned reality of war, its verses were a clear contrast to Walter's earlier celebrated poem The Piper.

Now we are old who yesterday were young
And cannot see the beauty of the skies,
For we have gazed the pits of hell among
And they have scorched our eyes.
The dead are happier than we who live,
For, dying, they have purged their memory thus
And won forgetfulness; but what to us
Can such oblivion give?

We must remember always; evermore
Must spring be hateful and the dawn a shame . . .
We shall not sleep as we have slept before
That withering blast of flame.
The wind has voices that may not be stilled . . .
The wind that yester morning was so blithe . . .
And everywhere I look I see him writhe,
That pretty boy I killed!

Anne's voice caressed the verses as if she were able to touch and comfort her son, who had written these gloomy, fatalistic lines, full of realism and yet at the same time remarkable joy, as if Walter had found some peace he would not otherwise have received.

Turning her back on the blossoming nature, of the dell, Anne walked away, leaving her son's verses echoing where he had been happy.


A/N: The Aftermath is poem by L. from her final work The Blythes Are Quoted, edited by Benjamin Lefebvre .