Flickering candlelight woke Camille, faint light seeped under his peculiary long-lashed closed eyes like soothing unverbal invitation. Camille opened his eyes, in muggy half-darkness, of packed bunker and saw Walter, he was writing, naturally. That young man, who was the light of his heart. Shining, lofty and bright Walter, who always seemed to see into some other, different reality than their strained circumstances.
Camille remembered one evening a couple of nights ago. Walter's keen, almost supernaturally brightened, passionate expression, when he came from his shift from dugout. There had been red spots on his pale cheeks, and traces of tears in his crystal clear, far-seeing eyes, probably due to the cold biting wind, and he had, with a light nod, and absentminded smile, warmed his cold hands, on a hot tin cup of tea, and he had declined of usual rum-ration, with fleeting grace, that Camille often likened to swan´s flight. Then Walter had uttered in a low musical tenor voice, a fragment of Shelley. There had been something strange in Walter´s tone of voice, a register of hauting sadness, of wistfullness, and jagged barely hidden emotion, that had alarmed Camille, who had not never heard Shelley recited with that kind of intensity of emotion.
All that is great and all that is strange
In the boundless realm of unending change.
With the fears and the love for that which we see?
And now Walter was half crouching, in a shady corner.
There was something fae-like about him, had always been so, but right now, it was as if he were listening, something that the others, slumbering all around them, did not even notice, maybe it was his Piper, that called him, but Camille was not sure, if Walter was used to explaining his creative flow, and his otherworldly grace, with his one most popular poems, but then again there truly was aching, tense anticipation in his form, that were deeper than the usual nervousness and tension associated with orders of"going over the top." Walter nodded to Camille, and a light, gentle, bright smile spread over his pale, refined features almost translucent in the light, as few straight pitch-black strands of hair flew over his forehead, and Walter's clear grey eyes seemed to be smiling only at him, as always, they had seemed to do so, for the very first moment, and with soft, fluttering hands he beckoned Camille to come closer.
There was carefully bound packets of letters and a flat metal box containing a few notebooks and drafts of poems, and Walter's old and well-worn Brontë, its red cover only vague murky stain, but these familiar objects were not of interest, for there was also standard template, military testament, with its watermarks, it was spread out, and on top that was only a fragment of a poem written in hurried handwriting, of flowing, bleeding, ink...
With wide anxious eyes Camille read it, it was hauntingly apt, in its bleak and resigned tiredness of front-life. Aftermath, as it was called, was burningly real. Twinkling eyes, Walter handed Camille a blank slip of paper, and soon with quick strokes Camille had drawn skillful illustration, as emotion in the verses spoke to him so. Shadows seemed to dance around them and Camille watched with a half smile as Walter wrote, yet another letter, light frown in his features.
Camille noted that Walter stretched in his cat-like way lazily, that seemed somehow studied, a little clumsy even, but heartwarming. There was a slightly tired smile on Walter´s lips, as he hummed something that could have been Mahler's Um Mitternacht, as Camille very well knew that quite often Walter hummed german classical music, despite jeering from other soliders in their company.
A surprised smile spread across Camille's face when he noticed what was resting on Walter's hand. It was a whisper-light, flowing forest-green silk scarf, that Walter had bought from Paris when they had walked in the cobbled streets of Momartre, before returning to the barracks, on the bright morning of that unforgettable night. Walter gracefully tied it around Camille's neck, softly, whispering, as he said, "I've been writing too many letters these past few days. I feel empty of words, I'm like a well that's been drained to the bottom, how strange, that feeling is. This scarf resonates with your eyes, that's why I got it then. When I see you here tired, and exhausted, like all of us, but still so present, and somehow mischievous, light as fluffy golden cloud, as if this war raging around us does not touch you. You have been my one ray of sunshine, and greatest happiness in this bloody charnelhouse-like roar of war. "
Resolutely, Camille slipped his hand into Walter's, long-fingered ones, and smiled at him, vibrant joyful way. Soon they fell asleep, holding each other's hands. Fringes of their silk scarves around their necks mingled, Walter's red and gray, which he wore one, over the other, and Camille's green, its light weight was foreign, and very soothing, there was a scent of something spicy, a hint of the bluish evenings of Paris.
The acrid smell of spent stearin wafted through bunker, as Walter´s candle finally melted in lumpy puddle. Outside sky was already slowly starting to lighten, dawn was not far off.
Then familiar shrill whistling of the whistle, echoed, and called the troops to gather, it was time. They all came out of their trenches, rungs of the ladders loosed underfoot, as they scrambled in their haste. In rows, after rows, all three divisions of Canadian corps, were now on the Somme soil. Camille had heard that this battle today Flers Courcelette, was the one of the largest and third stage of Allied attack, a syncronised plan, of various touchpoints, and all that they had to do was to hold their own part.
In the distance, explosions could be heard, the advance fire attack of the rolling barrage, which burned and destroyed everything in its path, obstacles, barbed wire fences, German trenches. The progress was slow on uneven ground, rugged and raped, beaten no man's land, only a few meters, in waves, men walked in a single front, or in a small groups, one by one.
In the gray misty light, Walter´s form seemed to glow, even though he, as all of them were only a two-toned smudge on gray muddy ground. Camille watched Walter's hands, they were trembling on his bayonet, and standard rifle, as they all were `leaning on the barrage`. The form and routine of advance was always the same. It was like walking in a thick smelly cloud. The hum of machine gun fire echoed from somewhere.
Time was utterly meaningless here, only flowing, floating moments, in suspended inertia, shocking, burning noise, endless, endless, hum of war.
Hours crawled by.
Flers-Courcelette road, in the direction of Albert-Beaupaume, was far from the front line. The village of Courcelette, it was just a hazy shadow, it was cut through by German trench lines, and one of them, was a gawping, jagged hole, fragments of rubble, as the walls had caved in.
The wind picked up and it started to drizzle, and the visibility got even worse.
Camille, distantly observed that others all around took melee combat readiness, just in case; hand grenades, and the like, hand signals were waved, and the terrain was explored. And suddenly, in front of them was a ruined, shradded sugar factory that seemed completely abandoned, or was it so?
Warily, Walter nodded to Camille as he cautiously advanced in a semi-crouch on the uneven ground. Straining his hearing, Walter heard the play of a light flute glowing and in a whisper, Walter asked, "do you hear flute?" The only response was a shake of the head, and a glint in green eyes as Camille, frowned at him. Walter glanced at Camille, who, with a furrowed, gray face, had stopped to rub his left leg, which had been hit by a shrapnel.
It had always seemed ironic to Walter that he had gained his only medal that accursed DC from that evening of horrors. Camille´s gait were exhausted, but his eyes were bright and attentive, as if he were making mental maps of their positions.
The familiar tone of alluring frenzy of Pipers call wrapped around Walter's heart. It was like all the colors in the world had disappeared and everything was just muddy sepia-toned muck. With the fastest fingers Walter touched his scarves, as so often before, their softness grounded him, it was as if he were floating, half already somewhere else. Then there was bright violin, somewhere very close. Music glowed, darkly romantic of unspeakable love, and longing, of togetherness. Turning half-step, Walter saw now very clearly Piper.
He was no longer shrouded in misty fog, and he seemed to wait. His tartan cloak fluttering, in invisible wind, and suddenly the playing of the flute rose to a cutting dance of notes, it was like a sudden warning, of time, of his time running out.
Half grimacing, Walter breathed shallowly and glanced to his left, was a man-made shadow, in a ragged uniform, only a lad, like them, slender features made too old before their time, and he had a rifle in his hand in position. Walter dashed towards Camille, for his dearly unprotected back was in the line of fire, with a swift movement, Walter purposefully stepped into bullet's path.
And Camille turned, and saw Walter lying wounded behind him, a light stain spreading across his uniform, and at the same moment the rifles echoed, and crackled. Camille crouched down close to Walter, and dragged him to cover, near shady wall, behind some large half-broken boliers. There was only small field-medicine pouch, in every soliders pack. So Camille pressed the sluggishly bleeding wound, and prayed, as he did what he could to stem the bleeding, but it was useless, the gauzes turned bloody, instant.
In bleak despair, and burning bubbling, terror Camille, held Walter's hands, in his own, as his rasping breaths echoed and Walter seemed to regain consciousness, for his eyes flashed, and he whispered, " I saved you twice, and that's my flaiming, burning sacrifice for love".
Walter's eyes opened trembling, and his parted lips smiled, and he in joyful whispery voice he muttered, or rambled onwards "All the beauty of the world, is mine again. Ingelside is so beautiful in the bright golden sunshine, the red of the wild wines and Rainbow Valley is a riot of color, and the whisper of the waves, of the Gulf, and how you you smile, as ever, in our August's ripe calm. The Piper's alluring call echoes, and now I can follow him at last, without worry, for I know they, those dear sweet lasses, will keep their promise, will keep faith."
And suddenly, there seemed to be a light, sparkling music coming from somewhere, as mist thickened around them.
Camille saw a hazy figure in a plaid cloak, behind which was an innumerable line of khaki soldiers, and other uniforms, old and new, strange mix of all eras, and then a dark vaque Italian looking curly-haired youth, with dramatic flashing eyes, in a white shirt with a violin, in a loose, professional grip, he took a step forward, and smiled at Camille, extending his hand, an unspeakable longing, in every gesture, towards Walter, who lay still next to him.
The unseen music rose, powerful, bright, and piercingly lovely, and the fog swirled, the eddies of it covered Walter in its damp embrace. There was a moment, that everything were suspended.
Walter's shade reached out to the white-shirted fiddler. Then he turned and smiled at Camille, one calm, fleetingly swan-gracefull smile, full of retuned sparkle, as all the wear and tear of life had been ripped away, like shredded and broken shell. Walter-shade turned as brightness swallowed him up, as all the mist flowed away.
The Piper had called Walter to join him, truly. Dazzled, doubting, exhausted and heartbroken, and battle-numb, Camille whispered a verse of Tennyson For I loved him, and I love him for ever; the dead are not dead but alive.
One autumn morning, in Glen light was crystal clear and the sky was a shimmering blue, with golden birches and reddish maples reflected in it. At Ingelside's breakfast table, Susan read headlines of the Daily Enterprise with a satisfied smile on her face. Headlines announced in sticky dark ink that Canadians had taken Martinpuich and Flers Courcelette, on 15.9.1916. Susan dropped her knitting-needles on the floor, and firmly declared "Well, it's about time, and I said to Cousin Sophia the other day that our boys will soon do great things. Walter will surely be there among the others, rushing against the enemy. It's good that Haight finally knows who to choose to do a hard job."
Anne Blythe glanced calmly at Susan, and Gertrude Oliver uttered in her pointed way "Susan, Susan. Perhaps I am a pessimist, but perhaps it is too early to rejoice, for we do not know how heavy the lot, or blood price, this latest attack has exacted." "Stuff and nonsense. There's too little to cheer about these days, so thanks to our boys' victory, I'm going to raise the flag, if you don't mind, dear Ms. Doctor Dear?"
With a light, still girlish smile, Anne nodded to Susan and fingered the embroidered handkerchief in her pocket, which had a quote from Tennyson's Lady of Shallot in elaborate stitches, of Alice Parkers hand. Fluttering ray of light landed on Walter´s photograph in the livingroom. And then the familiar dear footsteps came into livingroom and Anne straightened Gilbert's slightly flapping bow, and automatically she gave Gilbert a half-challenging look, just a flash of temper in her eyes, and inner tension in Gilbert relaxed, as he went to tickle little Jims, who was tottering around like a dervish, running Rilla almost ragged. Anne pondered that all was well in her Ingelsidean kingdom, Rilla was with Miranda Milgrave, doing war-work, endless canvassing for Red Cross, and dear Cornelia had new sewing projects planned for dreary wintermonths. And with slow steps Anne walked up the stairs to Walter's room.
The air in the room was musty, so Anne opened windows, and a fresh stream of air swept into the room, breeze made curtains flare. Anne let her eyes wander around her dearest child's room, everything was just as he had left it, when he left for the front. Books and papers in stacks, dictionaries, and notebooks, a few sheets of paper, and a text draft, still on the table.
Curious, Anne glanced at the yellowed paper, there were only a few verses on it
Lilac corner,
the smell of bees and clover,
candle wax and incense,
your sincere smile,
which I will not see except in my dreams,
your memory is heavy, painful in my heart,
as always in these times.
The scent of ripe grain,
the wind racing on the hills,
waves crashing against the reddish rocks.
From somewhere down the Shore road,
there is a bright silver laugh,
and we part, as if by stealth.
And I think
soon it will be Harvest,
when I shall see you,
perhaps, and learn your name, as you had already
named me,
marked me,
with this sudden,
and burning sting, of creeping emotions,
that are wide open like flower to the shades of moonlight.
In the bottom corner, there was a carelessly smudged date, the first year of the war. Anne tapped her fingers together and folded the poem in half, and put it in her pocket. It was completely different from anything Walter had written before, the half pent up emotions shone from the lines of the poem, powerful and a little bitter.
On the lawn of Ingelside, a flag fluttered in the wind, its banner glowed.
In her own room in the Presbyterian Manse, Una Meredith was startled awake by the sound of a howl coming from somewhere, like a dog howling, long, wailing, intermittent howls.
Only one dog was sitting at the Glen station, waiting for the trains. Dog Monday. Una jumped up and threw on the nearest dress and hurried out towards the station. The bright, sparkling glow of the dawn had risen, and the world was as if reborn, but Una walked quickly, not caring at all about the glowing, beautiful wonder of creation around her.
Dog Monday sat his small, multi-faceted body rigid, at the end of the pier, with his muzzle raised in the air, and heart-rending howls, rushing through the still air. And cautiously Una approached Dog Monday, the dog had stopped howling, it sat completely still, as if mourning. Finally, dog looked at Una, extremely humanely, and there was a look in its large loyal eyes that cut Una's heart to the core. "Good God, I hope nothing has happened to any Ingelsideans at the Somme." A butterfly's light thought flashed in her mind, in creeping agony. Una stroked Dog Monday, and the dog snorted, and with stiff, slow steps it walked to its booth. Una filled its watercup.
Una walked with sliding steps up the hill, and she passed Ingelside, the window of Rilla's room was open, and Una caught a glimpse of Rilla's nightgown, between the curtains, then the window closed.
Una walked onwards into decacently glimmering oasis that was Rainbow Valley. There she sat near Walter´s favorite spot, and hummed, in clear voice, a strand of Elgar.
Oh, soft was the song in my soul, and soft beyond thought were thy lips,
And thou wert mine own, and Eden re-conquered was mine:
And the way that I go is the way of thy feet, and the breath that I breathe
It hath being from thee, and life from the life that is thine.
As she sung, her sudden fluttering gloom, lessened, as her voice twined in with fae-bells, and light glinted in her hair-comb, that she almost always was wearing, Walter´s gift to her, dearer than almost any other token. And Una remembered the sparkle in Walter's eyes, and with a light rose-red happiness bloomed in her heart. Then Una remembered slight shadow of past suffering in Rosemary's eyes from time to time, whenever she occasionally hummed Ave Maria Stella, and Una shuddered, and Elgar broke off in mid-note. Sitting in Rainbow Valley was like an austere shimmering dream, from which one would soon be awakened to the reality of everyday life, and duties, Glen's gossip, war news, or God forbid, not telegrams.
A/N:
In these times, to write about even a vaque way historical battle like Flers Courcelette, 15.9.1916, is extremely difficult. So part of this chapter is an adaptation more of the circumstances than of certain events that day. I'm not a military historian, (even though I´m historian by training) and a tremendous amount of material has been written about Flers Courcelette, and especially about the Canadian Corps' gallant defense of their positions, if there is interest.
Tadzio´s music here is based on Sibelius Violin Concerto in D minor, it is utterly wonderful piece.
Finally, a few words for my Ukrainian readers:
Цей розділ для тих із вас, хто, можливо, читає це, і якщо ця робота хоч трохи просвітить ці часи, я буду вдячний. Як завжди і навіки Слава Україні!