As always, thanks for everyone for their reviews. Una's a bit tricky to get right - I reread Rilla of Ingleside recently and noticed that, despite being one of the more prominent characters, Una says exactly ten words in the entire book. It makes her kind of difficult to pin down, so I'm glad you guys thought she was all right. ^_^ As for how she ~develops~...I don't want to give anything away, haha.
And to the anon who had an anatomy exam today, I hope it went well! :)
Title is from "Ojos de cielo" by El Sueño de Morfeo.
wounds without words
Walter,
Things are holding up pretty well here. I had a short leave a while ago and went to see London - you know, I went back to all the places I visited with Mother and Dad and Persis so long ago, and somehow - they're not anything like they used to be. I wondered if maybe they'd changed it all - but it's me, Walt. I guess I'd been thinking that once I'm away, everything - including myself - would just snap back like nothing's happened.
It's a bit of a relief to write to someone who knows how it is. I love my parents and Persis - and all the chums I've been writing to back home - but it's hard to make it all sound like an adventure. At best, it's tedium - we've nearly worn the cards out from playing so many games - and I'm pretty sure one of the men in my regiment is a cheat - and at worst…well, you know.
Though I know how annoying it is to be repeatedly asked about an injury, I'm afraid I have to pose the question: how's the leg? If it makes you feel any better, I went and got myself cut across the face the other day. It looks to be shaping up into a nice little scar - if only it had a more dashing origin. I'm sure people will be enthralled with my tale of tripping over a sandbag and landing facedown.
Wish I could write more, but there's early rising to do tomorrow. I've written to most of them myself, but do say 'hi' to everyone at Ingleside from me.
Ken
Dear Walter,
I'm so glad to hear from you. I was worried, you know, when you didn't write back so quickly. But then - you're busy. We're all busy now, I guess. I left a letter from Faith Meredith for almost a month before I remembered to reply! Cutting "vermin shirts" (or "cootie sarks," as Rilla wrote to me - Walter, are we getting old? I'm not scandalized, exactly, but I did think it strange language for a sixteen-year-old girl to use. Then I realized that's the kind of thing Susan - or heaven forbid, Mrs. Sophia Crawford - would say and I promptly set about accepting Rilla's slang) distracts one more than you'd expect.
Redmond isn't the same without you. Mother told me not to write to you about university yet, but I can't keep secrets from you. Nan and I've been having to drop at least one class every term to make time for the Red Cross, and I don't expect we'll graduate anytime soon. But that's all right, isn't it? You can come back - when you're ready - and we'll study together. It's nice to think about such hopeful things - "when you come back," "when the war is over." It's all that really keeps me going, sometimes.
There! I promised myself I wouldn't get morbid - Nan says I'm brooding as much as you ever did - and here I am. I'm sorry. To talk of happier topics: it's almost summer, and I intend to come back to see you, even if it's just for a little while - I'd stay the whole vacation, but the Red Cross is always so shorthanded. Or - if it's not too strenuous, do come to Kingsport. Redmond's not quite the same, but you could visit me and Nan and see some of our friends. Alice Parker's been missing you, you know. But - I don't want to make you feel obligated. It's an awful feeling, isn't it? Sometimes I think I can't even remember what it felt like to have a moment to myself. To quote Nan, just this week: "I think the only time that truly belongs to me anymore is the two minutes when I wake up and haven't remembered all of my obligations yet!"
This letter is dreadfully scattered. If it were an essay, I'm sure my English professor would tear it up for being so unfocused. But surely my aspiring English professor brother will be more lenient?
There's not much else to tell you, I'm afraid. It's the same sort of schedule, every day - wake up, go to class, meet with the Red Cross, more class, more meetings, homework and Red Cross work, and then I collapse into bed wondering why I ever thought I'd enjoy college! But there, I'm glad to be here and I'm glad to be doing my part.
It's good to hear that you're doing better. I'm sure Mother and Susan are spoiling you beyond belief. And poor Jims has probably been abandoned since you came home (only joking! Don't tell Rilla, for I'm sure she'd be horribly indignant that I even suggested such a thing - she takes her maternal duties very seriously). I'll write more when I have time. And Walter - do remember that you can tell me anything.
All my love,
Di
In the dream, the commanding officer gives the order to go over the top, and they obey, as they always do - as they always must. Walter offers to lead the charge, because he has to be brave, he has a medal that says so, and the other men look at him with trust - some with the trust that he will stand by them, do his duty with honor; others with the trust that he will take a bullet so they won't have to.
And over the top they go, rushing towards the opposing lines, towards the guns pointed directly at them, while the officer who gave the order watches in safety. And then suddenly they are not the men from his regiment, they are Macdonald and Burrows from the hospital, and then they are Jem and Jerry and Carl and Ken and Shirley somewhere up above -
Walter wakes up, heart pounding and drenched in sweat, before the dream can progress any further, but it does not matter, for he is already filled with the dread of certainty that everyone he cares about is gone.
He slumps back on his pillow and stares at the familiar crack in the ceiling. (He used to think it looked like a bird, but now he's quite certain it looks like a turtle - what on earth had he been thinking?) His heartbeat is slowing, returning to its regular rhythm, as the dream - nightmare - ebbs away. He inhales, exhales, practicing the breathing exercises they had taught him in the hospital. "Helps keep the memories away," the doctor explained. Walter's not sure if that's true, but it does give him something to focus on. Breathe in, breathe out.
He rolls over to look out the window - he had always loved the view from his room. During nights when he was afraid or worried, the sight of the island stretched out below had always soothed his soul, reminded him that the world was still beautiful for all his fears. The moon hovers pale and full over the groves and dells. Is it his imagination, or does the man-in-the-moon look rather sorrowful tonight? This same moon that hangs over the Flanders trenches, over its graves. Although perhaps it's eye level with Shirley, which is the only comforting thought Walter has.
Eventually he calms, but still he cannot sleep.
"Amy MacAllister and I are going up the Harbour Head road to canvass today," Rilla says at breakfast. She smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry, Walter."
Walter only shrugs. Rilla's absence will be disquieting - he's become used to having her around, ready to chatter when he needs to be distracted, and prepared with quiet sympathy when he doesn't. At times, he finds himself doing double-takes, as if he cannot recognize the poised, empathetic creature wearing vain little Rilla's clothes.
"I think I'll be back by dinnertime," Rilla assures him, as though she'd read his mind. "We don't have to go up the whole road, but we may, since Olive Kirk's doing the main road and we'll have to make up all the houses she won't go to. She can't go more than two hours without eating - "
And in some ways, Rilla has not grown up at all.
"Rilla," Mother warns.
"It's true!" Rilla protests. "We had such a fight over eats - but never mind that. It's not so bad, I suppose. People are fonder of the MacAllisters than of the Kirks anyway, so Amy is bound to get more donations."
"And what will you be doing with the funds, sister mine?" Walter asks. "Getting up another concert?"
"No," Dad says with a good-natured groan. "Nothing turned my hair so gray as watching you prepare for that concert, Rilla."
"We're buying more material to sew into coo - vermin shirts," Rilla says, shooting a glance at their parents. "And socks, too. I'm almost good at it now."
"You'd be even better at it if you remembered that socks have heels," Mother says, her eyes dancing.
"I do remember! Half the time, at least."
Walter walks Rilla to the door and settles onto the swing on the veranda. He has his notebook with him, full of short verses about Canadian springtime and the sweet return home - lines written and then forgotten; he can't seem to truly string them together.
He's sat here a million times before, but suddenly the view is completely new to him - the winding trail to Rainbow Valley, the creek and the maple grove, the dual spires of the Methodist and Presbyterian churches peeking through the trees. He can smell the clean damp, the world washed anew by the recent rain. He inhales and the air is cold in his lungs.
"What will you do today?" Rilla asks, turning before she goes down the steps.
Walter shrugs. "Read, I suppose. I'd try to help Susan, but you know she doesn't trust me in her kitchen."
Rilla looks uncertain. "Is that all? You could - spend time with Mother, or - "
"Rilla," he says, gently. He knows how he must look to everyone: wandering the house all day, helping Susan with the dishes till she shoos him out of the kitchen. Mother keeps callers away - he doesn't want to speak to anyone. Not yet. He wants to be busy, he wants to rest - wants to talk and reconnect, wants to shrink away inside himself, inside his memories, and never come out. He's not sure what he wants. But there's nothing she can do, and it's best she knows it.
Rilla senses his silent rebuke and flinches almost imperceptibly, but then she smiles and pats his arm. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Walter smiles - a small, twisted thing, but a smile nonetheless. "You don't have to worry about me, Rilla-my-Rilla."
She gives him her own half-smile back. "Yes, I do."
"Well, how was canvassing? Did anyone attack you for daring to ask for money?" Dr. Blythe jokes that evening. For once, he'd had no calls, no emergencies to attend to, and they are all gathered 'round in the living room, Gog and Magog holding court over them.
Anne laughs. "Gilbert, do you remember how we used to go out asking for subscriptions for the AVIS? You'd think we were asking them for their entire life savings, at times. I hope," she says to Rilla, "you had more luck."
"And better results," Gilbert adds. "Lest we forget a certain town hall - "
"Oh, Gil, you're awful!"
Walter's face twists into a small smile. He and Rilla are leaning together on the sofa, she reading her newest letter from Ken Ford - although Walter is the only one privy to that detail. Then again, it may be obvious - certainly Carl Meredith's letters don't make Rilla blush quite so much. Walter trusts that his best friend's intentions are good - if not pure - and so doesn't bother asking what's in the letter. Still, the bright spots of red on Rilla's cheeks make him feel distinctly protective.
"I'm sure it was fine," he offers.
Rilla sniffs indelicately. "It was not," she says. "Irene Howard and Olive Kirk did the Upper Glen road, and they are always trying to shirk their share. They should give them a white feather - if there ever were slackers - "
Rilla's rant is cut off prematurely by Susan, who bustles in with a drawn face.
"A wire came for the Crawfords over-harbor," she says, sitting down and knitting with a vengeance. "Their son is in the hands of the Huns now."
Walter winces. He hates that word, Huns. He cannot see them the way the rest of the Glen seems to, as enemies without faces. All he can see, all he can remember, are the men he faced on the battlefield, men his own age, white to the lips with fear.
None of them had wanted this.
"And who knows what will happen to him in their clutches," Susan is continuing. "Civilized people they are not, and that you may tie to - "
"I daresay the Germans have contributed just as much to civilization as the British Empire," Gilbert says, exchanging a mirthful look with Anne.
Susan sniffs. "Perhaps," she says. "But I do not set my expectations for their humanity very high, Dr. Blythe. What they did to those Belgian babies and now to our men at the front - my bones ached last night and made it hard to get to sleep, so I weighted the Kaiser down with stones and made him stand in the high tide, and that was as good as any lullaby - "
She continues to talk, but a strange buzzing has started in Walter's ears, a strange anger coiling in his chest. The sharpness of his emotions surprises him, when everything he has felt has been so dulled. What does Susan know of death? Would she be glad, he wonders, to know what he's done?
"God," he says. Susan's head snaps up, alarmed, and Walter is glad - glad to alarm and scandalize Susan, shock her with his behavior, have his revenge. "God, stop."
Rilla pulls away from him and gasps quietly. They are all staring at him. Walter cannot bear their looks, but he cannot bear their talk, either. They cannot know. They will never know. He wishes he could explain, but for once, words have failed him.
"Walter - " Mother starts.
He shakes his head. "Don't." Shame at his outburst mingles with his anger and he suddenly cannot be here with them anymore. "I'm going to sleep."
His leg aches by the time he makes it up the stairs unassisted, and he falls into bed, waiting for the nightmares that he can never tell them about.
