November 6–9, 1918
Clear of the museum, Adi and the children crept carefully back to the cathedral square.
The artillery had been silenced and the Yanks, across from the church, had half a dozen German soldiers lined up against the wrought-iron fence. Adi looked at the men, in their makeshift uniforms, wondering if one of them had shot Doc. But, pale and emaciated as they were, it seemed a miracle that they were standing at all. A couple of them were nothing more than children and one of them was surely much too old to be shivering at gunpoint in an icy drizzle. Brushing tears from her cheeks Adi shook her head and led the children away.
A playmate led to a cousin, and then to a grateful uncle. The big man hugged Adi so hard she thought her chest would break. The little girl threw her arms about Adi’s legs and held tight but the boy became suddenly shy. Adi shook his hand formally but then pulled him to her.
She hitched a ride back to camp, hanging on to the side of a rundown supply truck. But just as they were turning away from the river Vesle, Adi saw the first of a long line of vehicles coming north from the camp. Banging on the side of the truck to slow it down, she hopped off.
It wasn’t long before she spotted a truck with a red cross. There was Gershom peering over the steering wheel, Cloutain and Lebeau at his side. She waved her arms above her head. Even as he was pulling the truck onto the shoulder, Gershom took one look at Adi’s face and he knew.
She explained to them as best she could what had happened. Gave them the half of Doc’s ID tag and a slip of paper from the Americans telling them where they could find the body.
It was an awful thing to see the light go out of Gershom’s eyes, though she imagined hers looked like that as well. Pulling him aside she signed that she was leaving—that she had solved the last riddle.
“Ah,” said Gershom, with a sad smile. “Did he know?” Adi nodded. “So, it’s good,” he said. “He died happy.”
He offered to go with Adi, said he didn’t want to be there anymore without Doc. She considered it, terrified of going it alone.
But, someone had to go take care of Doc. And in the end they both knew he wouldn’t like it if both of them abandoned the infirmary.
She kissed Gershom on the cheek and left him weeping, his head against the side of the truck.
• • •
Many times Doc and Adi had gone over the dangers and complications of traveling. If she was caught by the wrong people, it wouldn’t matter that the war was coming to an end. She would be seen as a deserter. And hundreds of men over the last four and a half years had died before a firing squad to make the point. She, of course, would be at a particular disadvantage, not even having the ability to fabricate some story. There were many soldiers on the move, however; as long as she could blend in, she should be safe enough.
As she stood on the roadside, waiting to hitch a ride, she took out the map. Her map now. She tried not to look at the rust colored stain across it. Tracing out possible routes to arrive at the abbey, she shook her head and marveled at how close it was to where she’d started. The abbey was less than thirty kilometers from Alorainn.
• • •
A Daimler truck carrying a broken anti-aircraft gun heading south had taken her as far as Châlons-sur-Marne. She slogged through the rain for the rest of the afternoon and then slept, curled up under an abandoned pigeon coop. That was day one.
Next morning, in a pouring rain, about to climb into the back of a truck full of soldiers, she recognized the coughing and the fevered complexions of Spanish flu. There was nothing to be done for them. She waved them on.
Before long, she ended up in the back of a covered horse-drawn cart with a mother and her children. The woman gave Adi her baby to hold and then promptly fell asleep on the pile of hay. Adi didn’t mind the baby; he babbled and cooed and snuggled his little head against her chest. But the cart moved so slowly, she could have made better time on foot. It did make her feel safer though, appearing to be with a family as she headed farther away from the front.
So far, so good. Maybe it was the red cross on her arm, maybe her honest face. Perhaps it was just too much trouble to be suspicious of a soldier unable to speak. That was day two.
• • •
On day three she found a bicycle.
She’d slept the night in a bed after slogging all day through the mud and cold drizzle. Sheets and a lovely quilt and a child’s lamp on the bedside table—it was heavenly. The back half of the house was missing, sheared clean away by artillery, but still and all, she got a decent night’s sleep for a change.
From the back of the house in the morning mist, she heard the sound of birdsong.
High in the branches of an apple tree a bluebird sang, perched upon the handlebars of a bicycle, no doubt relocated by the blast. The bird, late to be this far north in November, was jewel-like against the gray sky. It tweeted once more and was off.
It took Adi a while to figure how to get the bike down, sure that it would be too damaged to ride.
The tires were a bit low but otherwise it was in good working order. It even had a little basket in the front to tie her things onto.
This was more like it. Not as fast as a truck, perhaps, but more reliable and better at getting along the cratered roads. Most of all, she was in charge.
• • •
On day four, just past noon, she rode through a deserted little town. Montiers-le- . . . something, read the still-remaining piece of the sign. Other than shelling the place, the Germans had left most of it intact.
As she pedaled through the square, she saw what appeared to be a smartly dressed man without a head in the back of a bombed-out shop. She circled around for another look.
A mannequin stood in the rubble of a men’s clothing store. She stared at it for a moment, and then leaned her bike up against what was left of the doorway.
• • •
The statue of the beautiful boy riding a dolphin had long ago been blasted to bits. The pieces of marble lay under water in the fountain in the center of the town square. The week’s rains had filled it to the brim.
She put her stack of new clothes down on the pavement: a white shirt, trousers, a suit vest, and an overcoat.
There were bees on the label of her beautiful new bar of soap. She looked at it for a moment, then unwrapped it and placed it on the edge of the fountain. With a last look around, she began to peel off her uniform, piece by piece, until she stood there shivering, naked as a baby.
In she went.
The water was so cold it couldn’t have hurt more to have a layer of skin removed. That was about right, considering how long it had been since she’d had anything like a proper bath.
Gasping for breath, she washed and scrubbed her skin and scalp till her fingers ached. When she couldn’t stand the cold for another second, she leapt out and dried herself with the tablecloth she’d found in the cafe.
While she was buttoning her excellent new vest, she glanced down at the filthy pile of uniform she’d cast off. Like a chrysalis it lay, still retaining her form. The memento of her last three years. Goodbye and thank you, Monsieur Goux.
Picking up the watch, she put it—the yoke—back around her neck.
She found a rucksack and transferred only as much of her kit as she thought she’d need. The pockets of her new vest would do for most of her smaller medical gear. Clamp and folding scalpel here, stitching needle and gauze there. There’d be no more lugging about gas masks or extra pairs of boots.
She did keep her beautiful little “Ruby” M1914 pistol. She’d never once had to use it. But she didn’t need anyone to tell her it was a dangerous world out there. She buckled her holster under her overcoat.
Standing in the sunshine, she saw her reflection in what was left of a shop window and took what felt like the first deep breath she’s had in years. She felt so light. She was so light—she imagined she might lift right off the ground.
Climbing back onto her bike at the edge of town, she saw the whole valley stretched out before her. Down the hill she went as if she were flying.
• • •
Coal stood in the shade of the laurel tree on the arching stone bridge, and thought about crow’s feet.
That was one of the names for the little multi-pronged metal spikes he had ruining the pockets of his overcoat. They were called caltrops, or cheval traps, or crowsfeet, which they resembled. They’d been around for centuries, good for stopping soldiers, horses, camels, vehicles, what have you. The question was whether or not he would be throwing the nasty little spikes onto the downward slope of the bridge, where they would be hard to avoid.
It was a cockeyed thing to do—cheating, pretty much. And he never cheated.
“Well, hardly ever,” he said, wincing at the sunlight glaring off the water beneath the bridge. He dug around until he found his tinted lenses and put them on.
“Hasn’t she cheated? Without her little helpers, she’d have ended up in a ditch somewhere, a long time ago.”
There was one fewer of those helpers now. This made Coal’s head ache a little less.
Delicately, he removed the caltrops from his pockets, placing them on the moss-covered side of the bridge. It was almost impossible to get them out without pricking his fingertips. There was nothing left in the pocket but a pack of Portuguese cigarettes and a couple of gold coins.
“Chances are,” he said, tossing the spikes onto the bridge one after another, “on a bicycle, she’ll not even hit one of them.”
• • •
George and the lads nearly made it to headquarters without incident.
Crossing the river Meuse, only a half-dozen kilometers from the camp, they ran across enemy soldiers—deserters, probably. Or remnants of the eastern front.
They thought they’d gotten clear, until Augustin’s mare stumbled.
The bullet missed the front edge of the saddle and Augustin’s leg, passing into the animal’s chest. She dropped gently to her knees and lay down as if she were sleeping.
They made it back—again, on two horses, Augustin cursing the whole way.
After they’d given their final report, Augustin checked to make sure he had his billfold and, without another word, hopped a truck into the city of Soissons.
Three hours later he was back, pulling up in the most rundown, beat-up, bullet-shot automobile any of them had ever seen. He wouldn’t say how much he’d paid for this prize, but they could tell from the look on his face that it had been a fortune.
He didn’t care—said he’d have paid twice that to not ever have to be responsible for another horse.
Thomas suggested that they get a good night’s sleep and start fresh in the morning for Alorainn. They argued the point for a moment and then started throwing their things into the back seat.
They submitted their furlough papers, collected all the odds and ends that had been accumulating at headquarters, grabbed all the rations they could get their hands on—and they were on the road.
• • •
They headed south all night and half the morning, before they turned east. Then the car broke down.
It took the rest of the day merely to find someone who could work on a valveless automobile and most of the next to find spark plugs for it.
They sat about the mechanic’s yard, talking and playing bocce ball with the man’s sons.
Deciding to use the nearly inedible dry rations as prizes, Thomas dug about through the pile of clutter that had ended up on the floor of the back seat.
“Hello!” he said, holding up a little leather satchel. “Where did this come from?”
“Our mail! That’s what Henri was going on about. It must have gotten thrown in with all our other rubbish.”
As they feasted on a sublime cassoulet made by the mechanic’s wife, they went through the bag.
There was a stack for Augustin, a few for Thomas. But most of the letters were for George. Aunts and uncles and cousins, appealing to him, the tone becoming more and more urgent, to return and soon. Every page was an arrow to his heart.
Augustin emptied the satchel, pulling out the last small letter from the bottom of the sack. It was addressed to Thomas.
“And what have we here?” said Augustin. “Nice handwriting. And not from Alorainn. Could it be . . . ?”
George stopped reading for a second, snatched the letter and tossed it to Thomas.
• • •
By the time the mechanic’s wife brought out the glazed apple tart, George and Augustin were thoroughly despondent. Thomas had a different expression.
“Monsieur,” said the wife to the young man, “are you unwell?”
The rest of the table turned his way. Thomas did look as if he’d swallowed his tongue.
“Um,” he said and closed his mouth, looking hard at the letter.
“You okay?” George asked.
“Uh, huh,” Thomas managed.
“Out with it Thomas Hast,” said Augustin. “We’ve got enough bad news.”
“I think,” Thomas said, faintly, “I found Xander and Xavier.”
“What!” said George. “You figured out the riddle?”
“Not exactly.”