Chapter Ten

As if my anger and depression were not sufficient, I received an additional jolt upon arriving at the cottage. I was about to open the door when, startling me, it opened by itself, or seemed to. I jumped back with a hollow cry as a figure appeared from the shadowy interior. Before I could stop my heart from pounding, I saw that it was Joe. “Whoa!” he said, surprised to see me. He smiled involuntarily. “It’s you,” he went on. “You startled me.”

I blew out heated breath. What the hell are you doing here? my brain demanded. The roof is done. Looking for more work?

“I brought you some food,” Joe said. “Thought you might be out. Got you bread and cheese, a bottle of milk, some ham.”

It didn’t help my frame of mind to add a measure of guilt to it. The man had done something nice for me, and here I was mentally lambasting him. “Thank you,” I muttered. It came out totally unconvincing.

He changed the subject after saying, “Welcome,” and gestured toward the path. “Been out walking again?” he said. I sensed that he was merely being polite.

I nodded; barely. “Yes.”

“Didn’t go into the woods, I hope,” he said.

“No.” I shook my head, barely. Then—perversity be my name—I decided, on impulse, to tell him all. “I did go into the woods. To Magda Variel’s house.” There, I thought. Make of that what you will.

What he made of it came as a total shock. “Magda Variel’s house,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, mentally daring him to criticize.

“Not a good idea,” he said.

I couldn’t hold in my resentment. “Why?” I believe I ordered.

“Because she’s a witch,” said Joe.

For several moments—an eternity, it seemed—I stood frozen, staring at him. Then blank reaction deepened to fierce rancor, to fury, to absolute wrath. “Oh, that’s too much,” I told him in a clotted voice.

“You don’t believe me,” he observed. It wasn’t difficult to see.

“I do not,” I responded, using, without realizing, one of Father’s oft-repeated phrases.

“You should,” he said.

Ire mounted in me. First, little people in the woods. Now, a witch? What next? A dragon in downtown Gatford?

“Young man, listen to me,” Joe began.

“No,” I interrupted vehemently. “You listen to me.” (Another of the Captain’s incessant phrases.) “I just spent close to an hour in Magda Variel’s house, and a nicer woman I haven’t known since my mother. And she’s old enough to be my mother! She showed me her house and was charming—absolutely charming. She was going to give me tea and cakes, then I said something that hurt her feelings and she sent me home—” I grimaced. “—to my cottage, I mean.”

“Young man,” Joe started again.

I broke in on him once more. “You might be interested to know that she said the same thing about faeries that you did. I’m still not sure about them. But listen, Joe. She’s a lovely woman with a lovely personality. Don’t tell me she’s a witch! That’s ridiculous!”

“All right,” he said in a quiet voice. “Find out for yourself.”

His confidence unhinged me, I admit. “Why do you say this?” I asked.

“Listen,” he said. That it sounded neither angry nor flustered bothered me. I admit again. “She wasn’t always this way. She and her husband and their little boy were much liked in the village. They had people to their house for dinner. They visited other people. She was a substitute teacher at the children’s school.”

He paused. The silence wracked me. It was so silent.

“Then her husband died. An accident. The horse he was riding fell, its neck was broken. Her husband lingered for a week. Then he died.”

Another silence, heavy and discomforting.

“She lived in seclusion [God, he did know words] with her son. Then, on his eighteenth birthday, he enlisted in the army. His mother tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. [Another unexpected word from a simple farmer.] He left Gatford, went to France. In a month, he was killed. Mrs. Variel fell apart. She stayed alone in her house. And became a witch.”

Now he lost me again. “Became a witch?” I contested, “How does one become a witch?”

“Maybe she’ll tell you,” he said. Now his voice was edged with resistance. I’d injured Magda’s feelings. Now I’d injured Joe’s. Perfect day. I watched him walk away.

I still didn’t believe it, though. In memory, I retraced each step of my afternoon with Magda from the moment I met her at the path to her house until the moment she’d put me out. Had she said or done anything … well, witchlike? I simply could not visualize her wearing a coned black hat, riding a broom, and conversing with an indigo cat. She was lovely. I was an idiot not to sit on that mattress beside her. Who knows what fervid moments might have ensued? But a witch? It was—to quote myself—ridiculous!

*   *   *

The resentful disbelief of later afternoon led to the bizarre event of the evening. Still feeling cranky and charged with righteous anger, I walked to the Golden Coach, taking into no consideration the fact that I would have to find my way home (Home—ha!) in the dark. I wanted—needed—a drink to wash away my guilt and aggravation. I was mad. And madness in a young man—this one, anyway—can be prodigious. And detrimental.

So there was I, in company with barkeep Tom and several other Gatford worthies, when the trio of louts came in. I call them louts, but that is probably unjust. I would have estimated any three young men as louts because of my stretched-thin temperament that evening. It was, therefore, with the best of intention, I’m sure, that one of the three approached and said (politely—I’m also sure), “We hear that you participated in The Great War.”

I confess that laid me low. “Great—War?” I murmured. Instantly prepared to hurl him through the window. At least.

“My chums and I are planning to enlist,” he told me.

“You are” was all I could say. Great War? Jesus!

“We want to help put the filthy Boche in their place.”

Yes, I thought. The filthy Boche. In their place. I considered tossing my ale in his smiling face. Punching out his sparkling lights (eyes).

But he was so polite, so GD polite. Also, he was twice my size, a bulky, overmuscled farm lad. And he did say “help” put the filthy Boche in their place. At least he wasn’t planning to put them in their place all by himself. Or with his two companions. Generous of them.

So I chose to speak with them. Not kindly or sincerely. Speak, however, when the young “lad” (as Joe would, doubtless, have called him) asked for information re their intention to “confront the bloody Triple Alliance.” Not quite so colorful as “filthy Boche,” but a deal more accurate.

“Let’s see, now,” I began. “First of all, it seems to rain a lot. I’ve heard it said that the explosions do something to the clouds. Maybe, maybe not. It does rain a lot, though. The trenches get muddy. Not so nice. The food is pretty awful, too. Slumgullion is the worst. You’ll find out. And the explosions? Caused by mortar shells or hand grenades. They can do some harm.”

I’d saved the best for next. Should say “for the best,” because the word is replete with sarcasm.

“The mortar shells and hand grenades can do a number of uncomfortable things. Remove an arm or a leg. Blow off your head, in fact. During one attack—which didn’t work—I had to crouch in a shell hole with an officer who’d lost his head. I mean, lost it. All that were left were bloody shreds of his neck. Not too pretty a sight. Shrapnel can also blow out your guts.” I thought of Harold when I said that.

Then I hit them. “Mostly, of course, dead bodies are buried in a spot behind the trench. All the rain uncovers bodies, so they rot. The smell of that—well, lads, I’ll leave that for you to imagine. Not very nice. Can’t say I liked it much. You know who liked it, though? I mean what like it?”

I paused for emphasis.

“The rats,” I told them. “Big ones. Big as cats. Why were they so big? Because they ate the dead soldiers. I mean ate them. Gorged on them. They were especially fond of eyeballs and livers. Smacked their furry little lips as they devoured those goodies.” I may have exaggerated a little there. But I was pissed off at that threesome of rustic dumbbells. And I wanted to sicken them. Maybe I’d talk them out of enlistment. It wasn’t my intention. Still …

“You’ll enjoy shooting the rats; they explode nicely. Just don’t shoot them all—they warn you about attacks the filthy Boche are planning to launch.” I probably didn’t use that last word, memory diffused by eighty-two-year-old cloudiness.

But I went on. Deeply pleased (what a mean compulsion) by their obvious reactions—mouths agape, eyes staring and unblinking, bodies rigid.

“When I say ‘warn,’ I don’t mean the rats can talk,” I continued. “I mean they run away before the attacks begin. Little bastards must be psychic. You can have fun with them, however. Rat war. Throw the dead bodies at each other, watch them splat against faces if your aim is good.”

Another pause for dramatic emphasis. There definitely was a hint of Arthur Black–to-come in me.

“I don’t mean to tell you that the only unpleasant smell was that of rotting corpses. Not at all. There was also the odor of the cesspools—or as we called them, the shit pits. That’s rather unpleasant, too. Not to mention the lingering odor of poison gases—rotting sandbags—cigar and cigarette smoke—cooking food. All combined into one ghastly perfume of war.” I did say that; not bad for eighteen.

“Is that it? Not exactly.” I went on, “Mustn’t forget the lice. They lay eggs in the seams of your uniforms. Nasty buggers. Cause trench fever. Severe pain and fatal fever. Then, of course, the muddy trenches and the cold cause trench foot. Feet get blue and swollen, have to be amputated sometimes. Anything else? No, that’s all, lads. Best of luck. Slugs and Frogs, you can worry about on your own.”

I never found out whether they had enlisted or not. I only knew that I felt justified in my rant. Not that I felt any better about Magda—even Joe. But a percentage of the steam had been released.

Is that enough description of trench warfare? I told you I’d get around to it. Satisfied?