The bright flickering September sun shone in the clear cloudless sky of the Glen, and the Manse kitchen smelled of fresh tart apple pie. With light steps, Una Meredith took the hot pan from the oven, and placed it to rest, under a pure white crocheted towel. Mary Vance poured tea into dainty rose cups and remarked in her snappy style, "It's a real wonder that these dishes of your mother's have survived perfectly intact." Una looked over her shoulder, "Well, they've been in the attic for the last ten or so years, and only last week Rosemary found them, in a corner. Great Aunt Martha always remembered those cups when visiting priests came here, according to her, they did remained at Maywater Manse, but on the other hand, she never climbed into the attic, and when we were children we always played in the middle, and never in the corners, that place was full of cobwebs, as you may remember."
Mary ginned, at Una, as her pale eyes sparkled, and for a moment Una saw a glimpse again of twig-thin, Mary, dressed in ragged clothes, who had slept in that same attic in the past years, her face pale and emaciated, the contrast with Mary's present radiant health was great. The years had passed, and now the world was different from the carefree days of childhood, when little scandals of the village community disturbed her peace of mind, they were nothing compared to the current bloody throes of war, the hum of the fields of the Somme, the battles of Guillemont, Gincy, and past attration war of summer months.
Mary ate her portion of apple pie with gusto and pointedly remarked, " Only last week, dear Cornelia said that the Daily Enterprise had said that something big might happen on the Somme front in the coming days, it's about time, I´ll say, as our boys have been drafted there, maybe them can turn the tide, for Allied cause. I've noticed that in my free time I'm studying the maps of the Somme region, with Cornelia, and I'm thinking that all those villages there, like Albert, Martinpuich, or Flers, are relatively close, together, although geography has never been my strong point, as you probably remember. Harvest fair are coming up in Lowbridge, are you coming there, Una?"
Una shook her head in silence, as indomitable Mary Vance told her little tidbits of gossip, who had bought the wrong kind of lace, who quarreled with whom, and why Irene Howard had not been seen at all in the Glen for the past few weeks. Rumors said that she reportedly had a rich suitor who had a crush on her and so on. Finally, Mary started back in the direction of the Four Winds, waving her colorful scarf, and feeling satisfied and happy, in her calm way, Una reflected that the afternoon had been pleasant for there were seldom those moments, nowadays, when Mary and Una met, without Glen's social dance, of Ladies Aid, or the tea parade after Sunday Services.
The honey-colored light of the afternoon shone through the lace curtains, and Bruce's laughter rang through the window, as he played there with Moggie, the kitten. Una balled her hands into fists, as her thoughts, as so often these past few weeks, focused on Walter. And with a soft smile, Una walked to the piano, and straightened her posture, and soon wistful, fervent, enchanting music glowed, once again in the Manse, as she played with soft and sure touch, all of hers and Walter´s mutual favorites, culminating in Dvorak, for Walter especially always loved that Czech opera, and with a silvery voice Una hummed Rusalka´s theme, as and she prayed that he would be safe, warm, and perhaps writing, somewhere in the region of Somme, in northern France.
The bend of the river Somme was no longer visible, it had been a narrow, silvery strip glowing in sunlight, its banks had been fought with the greatest sacrifices since the beginning of July. Walter's heart ached when they had passed destroyed church, its ruins were still smoking, for a couple of days earlier there had been fighting in the Gincy area. Everywhere there was a scent of autumn, that gentle, fresh, tangy scent, half-ground leaves wet from dew or rain as Walter leaned on a gnarled birch tree standing by the roadside, and looked at the landscape that opened up in front of him.
A broken country road, bushes, and a greenish-gray nature, where a few golden-reddish leaves brought variance. He took a step forward and stepped cautiously over a prickly, greenish-yellow hawthorn branch that someone, a solider maybe from another battalion, had thrown on the road, and quickly Walter bent down and fingered one of the reddish berries, and after glancing around, he soon noticed across the road, a large prickly hawthorn bush full of reddish berries. And with one long stride, and smooth gesture, Walter took off his hat, and soon had filled it with berries. Camille smiled mischievously, and took one berry from Walter's palm, his green eyes flashing, as he quickened his steps, alongside Walter, straight-backed, one kahki shadow among many, in flowing battalion line, in the deep Deville Woods.
Days passed, as misty drizzle, moistened nature, and the sky was as gray as Walter's smoke-rimmed eyes, seldom had he seen quite the same shade of translucent clear gray anywhere, and now and then, bluish clouds came through, and a golden, slightly watery light shone on the battered ground that had been torn were trenches everywhere, they criss-crossed torn, and shattered silhouettes of villages, all over the Somme area.
Flame of the oil lamp cast flickering shadows in the walls of the dug out trench covered with spruce branches. The smoke of damp cigarette smoke, and the iron rations of the soldiers, cooked over in hap-hazard-way, were by now combined into a scent memory that was by now as familiar to him, than scent of Susan´s Monkey-Face-cookies had been Before.
There was a light rustling, as almost everyone in Walter´s company were writing letters, whenever there was time to do so. The sweet taste of hawthorn berries in his mouth, Walter straightened his stooped posture, with weary, cold fingers, he wrote flowing, crisp ballad-like verses, as sudden inspiration had struck. Walter´s pen danced over frayed pages of his black wax notebook. Suddenly a soldier's voice broke Walter's concentration as he said "While we're here somewhere on the Somme, and just waiting, it occurred to me, can you Blythe recite something to us, like you did before?."
Dreamily, still half in the throes of creation, Walter looked up from his notebook and frowned. Camille's eyes seemed to be laughing at him, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. Certain verses had been ringing in Walter´s mind for days, so straightening his posture, he recited softly, Tennyson, and then Yeats, and finally Hardy, full on wistfulness, and old shimmering dreams of world gone now, forever, and its shades remembered only on potpurri of different dried flowers, that are keepsakes in grandmothers mantlepieces, all over Europe, the final sigh of old Victoriana. Resounding applause, glowed, and a light tint of red on his cheeks Walter nodded, and concentrated on his correspondence, small cascade of them.
The letters were around him in little piles, tied with colored silk ribbons, and his notebooks too, red, black, and brown. Dark pencil marks, hazy on light paper, his handwriting were no longer as smooth as before, as learned, more of a looping scrawl. Carefully, with slightly aching fingers, Walter moved aside the letter he had written to Mumsy. Hours had merged into one another. Watching the dance of light and shadow on the rough-hewn planks. Walter began yet another letter, to his dear Doss, in which he wrote with a weary, trembling hand the deepest secrets of his heart, for Di had always been his confidant in almost everything, and now here, sitting in the mud of the Somme, Walter found that the last wall between their souls was torn away, and with powerful feeling Walter wrote, cautiously but also truthfully, of a shadowy, creeping emotion, that had no name, and which did not exist, except in whispers, and written cautious allusions, in antique literature and myths of earlier ages past, but the feeling sparkled, it lived and glowed, it was, as ever it had been.
And feeling vaguely certain Walter wrote: " When I was in Paris, before I came here, I met, at Mumsy's request, Little Elizabeth, whom you may also remember. She lives of her own accord in the district of Passy, with her friend, who is a singer. I suggest that you enter into correspondence with her if you have any questions, for Elizabeth is a true kindred spirit. My time in Paris gave me the greatest happiness that continues to this day. I gained certain memories and experiences that are immortal. And the dawn panorama over the rooftops of Paris is something indescribably beautiful, I believe you may experience it yourself, perhaps with golden Alice, or perhaps alone." And then, there was Alice, there was a hint of gloom in her soul that spoke to Walter's innermost being in a different way than the warmth, and trust of both his sisters, two autumnally slender maidens. In quick motion, Walter flipped through the open notebook on his knee, and cut out a few pages which he folded into Alice's letter.
Walter felt Camille's fixed gaze between his shoulder blades. He knew that if he looked to his left, and a little behind he would catch a glimpse of Camille's profile, touched with gold, it would be. And Walter remembered wistfully, those so fleeting moments under the apple tree. It was not safe to look, here in the open, among others, side by side like sardines in a jar, but still, he turned, stretched, and glanced, cautiously and furtively, as he did so he noticed that there was an ink stain on Camille's cheek. Walter's fingers were itching to wipe it away, a black little dot, on such a dear cheek, he took a deep breath, feeling a choking sensation in his throat, shook his hair, and strode out, from a dugout, but the feeling did not subside, and with nervous steps Walter walked in the twilight, light circle. Wind had picked up, it seemed to be whispering, hauntingly sorrowful dirge, but to whom? In a distant, clinical manner, he thought of the verses he had written as bone deep exhaustion and inspiration alternated in his heart, the first verse of Aftermath, where the reality of grueling trench warfare was depicted, in vivid colors. The cross of exhaustion, and self-loathing, and bloodlust, and survival, of hellish conditions. There were shades of hidden love, his very own, fervent and aching, buried in between the creeping verses, of the stripling boy, the pretty one, writhing, killed by blast of bullet.
Then, it was his turn for sentry do.
Piper's flute playing had only increased in recent days. Feeling hollow, Walter rubbed his temples, but for now there was blissfull silence. The soft misty rain had finally stopped, and the sky glowed darker than velvet, and a pale crescent moon arched across the sky. Looking at the flickering misty void of No Man´s Land before him, as softly as Walter recited verses, that he had refined, only few hours ago.
Often love and death go hand in hand.
Armies come, and men and youths depart,
To their paths of honor, and leave letters,
Or only glances that suffice, or they don't.
In the branches of an old oak,
a blackbird sings
its mournful,
unforgettable tune.
one soldier remembers the violin,
which has been silent for many years,
narrow fingers no longer conjure up notes,
under starry autumnal frosty sky.
And somewhere far away in a village untouched by time,
a black-haired maiden sits,
she plays an old piano,
the worn notes are decaying,
and the sharp September wind enchants open curtains,
as music like pure moonlight
flows out into the fading evening.
A cold crescent moon glows in the sky,
and the girl skillfully plays to the moon,
a haunting, lingering
note that brings to mind water nymphs,
old fairy tales,
curses and blessings,
and the sweetness of hawthorn berries.
Hours passed.
The crystal clear silence was suddenly broken by Piper's familiar seductively bright tone, and with almost dazzled eyes, Walter saw, truly saw, Piper. Its cloak flared in suddenly risen cold breeze, that stung and chapped Walters cheeks, with its bite as Piper, was walking almost transparently in No Man's Land and countless shadows of kahki-uniforms were walking behind him. Then Piper's alluring flute was joined by a familiar, long-sought violin, and Tadzio´s shade turned, and winked, still playing, a new a romantically fatally dark note, and melted away, into rising mist.
Walter felt in his soul an almost unearthly pain, as the tears flowed down his narrow cheeks, and a sudden painful awareness rose from his soul, this premonition, blessing, or vision was something remarkable. And Walter knew, with a mysterious unspoken certainty, that the veil between the worlds was now extremely thin in these gray days of September.
Later, much later, Camille's nearness warming his heart, Walter was spinning his pen in his hand, for there was still one letter to be written, or rather two, but there was no time any more, as clock was ticking, endlessly, the orders had come, finally. Longingly Walter thought of dear Rilla's silvery, bright bubbling joyous laugh, and of Una's unflinching blue wistful way of looking, that longing, taxing look that demanded nothing, but was full of mysterious permanence, and of Ingelside and Glen's autumnal ripe bright landscape, of the asters that grew on the lawn, of the silvery bells that tolled in the breeze, in Rainbow Valley, and he began to write as Piper's urelenting call shimmered and entwined into the very fabric of his letter, as Camille's whisper of only this morning glowed in his heart; " None of us know when our time will come. I don't have your premonitions, or sudden visitations, but you know my heart, as it is yours."
Tomorrow, company would go over the top, at dawn, to the Baupame road, to capture village of Flers Courcelette.