Marching As to War: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel (14 page)

“Yeah, I do. We owe her more . . .” I struggled to hold back
tears.

Maggie was looking at me. Not with contempt or even concern.
She watched me the way you watch game through the sights of your rifle.
Waiting for the right moment.

“You in love with her?” she said.

I surprised myself by being able to look right at her as I
said, “No. I thought so once. But that was just foolishness.”

Just as easy, I could’ve said, “Yes. I still am. But that is
just foolishness.”

I had decided to tell a half-lie rather than a half-truth.
The whole truth was I didn’t know if I loved Jane, or even what love was. But I
did know it was foolish to think about Jane that way.

Maggie was still.
Watching.
I guess
she was making up her mind about me, and figuring what to do from here on. It
was an effort to keep looking right at her, and that went on for a long time.
Then she stood up and asked me if I would like some pie. I said I would.

A little while later, I thanked her for dinner, and we said
our goodbyes. I wanted to touch her. Maybe she felt the same way, but there was
still a wall between us. So I didn’t. I just put on my hat and went out into
the night, making sure I closed the door behind me.

Outside, it was getting colder, and a good wind had come up.
The first snow couldn’t be far away. I started walking, pulled down my hat, and
turned up the collar of my coat. After a few steps, I stopped and turned. A
light still shone in the window of Maggie’s cabin. I still didn’t believe that
I would ever live in that cabin with Maggie, or raise children there. I didn’t
believe it would happen. But I would accept it as good fortune, a blessing, if
it came.
If I lived through the war.
If the war ever ended.
If.

Then I remembered talking with Jane’s uncle. He told me not
to be worrying on the future. “The only future you got is right now,” he had
said. And that was true.
Gospel truth.

The light in the cabin went out. Maggie had gone to bed. I
wished I were there with her. Not to be doing anything. No, I just wished to be
warm, to drift into sleep unafraid and
unalone
.
To dream good things.

But I was alone, in the dark, and getting colder. I turned
and headed home. In two days, I would take my rifle and my bedroll and go back
to the war. That was the only future I had.

And then the war was over. At least, that’s what we thought.

The day before I was going to head back, my father and I had
breakfast and went out to get some chores done. When we came back at
midday
, we found my mother in the kitchen,
sitting in a chair, crying. Worried that something bad had happened, we rushed
over to her and asked what was wrong. She started laughing and said the war was
over.

She told us one of the Jameson boys came by on horseback
with the news.

“How’d he know?” I said.

“His father heard it down at the trading store. War’s over.”

“Who did Mr. Jameson hear it from?” I said.

My mother didn’t know. She hadn’t asked. The Jameson boy had
brought news she had been praying for. Folks are slow to question what they
want to hear.

“This might not be true,” I said, dropping into a chair.

My mother looked at me like I had slapped her. She needed to
believe.

My father put a hand on her shoulder and said, “He’s right.
We have to find out.”

She nodded. You could see her shoulder the burden again.

“I’m going to the Jameson place,” I said. I was running out
the door before they could say a word.

Mr. Jameson had heard the news from somebody else who had
heard it from somebody else. He was so sure it was true that he had opened a
bottle of whiskey to celebrate, even though the sun was still high in the sky.
Full of good cheer, he offered me some. It was bad manners, but I said no
thanks, and hurried home.

My parents and I sat at the kitchen table and talked. They
wanted me to wait. Maybe more news would come along. But I needed to know.

Of course, I wanted to go right then, but that was
foolishness. The sun was near down. Better to go in the morning.

“What about Maggie?” my mother said.

“You tell her for me,” I said. Maggie and I had said what we
had to say for now.

My mother looked disappointed, but she didn’t argue.

I lay awake every minute of that night thinking in circles,
waiting for the first sign of dawn.

My parents saw me off. My father gave me a firm handshake
and my mother a hug. No tears. I went out the door and forced myself not to
look back.

It all turned out to be unnecessary.

I had been walking for no more than a couple hours when I
heard someone coming toward me. I got behind a tree and watched him come on.
When he got a little closer, I recognized him. Stepping out where he could see
me, my hands up and empty, I called his name, “Hey Weber!”

For a moment, he looked startled. Then he recognized me.
“Hey!” he called and began laughing.

We shook hands and slapped one another on the back. I
noticed he smelled of whiskey, but didn’t appear drunk.

“Is it true?” I said.

“What?”

“The war.
What else?”

“Hadn’t you heard by now?”

“I heard.
But didn’t know for a fact.
So it’s really over?”

“Yeah.
They told us Winslow made
some kind of deal with the Government.”

“Deal?
What kind of deal?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know, but the goddamn shooting stopped,
and they said men with three years service was done and out.”

“For good?”

“For as long as it lasts. All I know about is right now. And
I’m going home!” We both grinned and slapped one another on the back again.

Then he frowned. “If you didn’t know it was over, what you
doing here?”

I explained how Campbell
had sent me home a month ago. But I didn’t explain why, and Weber didn’t ask.
He likely figured it was because I had gotten too nervous to be any damn good
in a fight. It happened to a lot of us, but nobody talked about it.

“So you
was
headed back?” he said.

“Yeah.
It was lucky running into
you.”

“Running into to me is always lucky.”

We both laughed.

I wanted to head home right then, and invited Weber along,
but he was real hungry and wondered if I had any food. I had some biscuits and
bacon my mother had made. We made a little fire and started eating and talking.

He asked about Riley.

“Good,” I said. “Last time I saw him anyways.”

“What about that Jane Darcy? I heard you and Riley was with
her for a while.”

“Yeah.”
I shrugged, hoping he would
take the hint.

“Is it true what everybody says about her?” Weber said.
“Does God really tell her things?”

I shrugged again.

Weber still didn’t take the hint and said, “I heard she--”

I cut him off. “What about the old squad? Harris? Stokes?
Price?”

Weber didn’t say anything for a long moment, and I could
tell it was going to be bad. “All dead,” he said.

I wanted to know more, but I said nothing. I left it up to
him to say what he wanted.

“Just a few days after it all began. We got caught in some
of that damn artillery. There was a big flash not ten yards from me. Price,
Stokes, a couple others, just gone.”

“Damn,” I said in a whisper.

“Harris and
me
was together ‘til a
few weeks ago. An ambush went bad. He got all shot up.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Hung on for hours.
Always was a
stubborn sumbitch.”

I was sorry I asked. It would’ve been better to talk about
Jane than make Weber remember.

“Sorry,” I said.

He shrugged. “Don’t matter none.”

Riley had said the same thing when I left. It mattered.
Nothing could matter more.

We sat there for a long moment. Then I stood up, kicked out
the fire, and said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

Weber stayed overnight, sleeping in my brother’s old bed. In
the morning, he wanted to be off for home. He didn’t say how he felt, but I was
a little sick and shaky from the whiskey the night before. My father had never
been a drinking man, yet he counted my return with Weber as an occasion worthy
of what he called “the snakebite medicine.” We drank until
midnight
.

When we were full of the whiskey, Weber and I talked some
about visiting or going hunting together sometime. But even as we were saying
it, I knew it would never happen.

After some breakfast, I walked with Weber to where he would
pick up a trail toward his home. We didn’t say much. All our talking had been
done the night before. We just shook hands, and he walked into the woods. I
stood and watched him go. Just as he got to the top of a little rise, the sun
came out from behind some clouds. He stopped, took off his hat, and tilted his
head back to enjoy the feel of its warmth on his face. Then he turned toward
me, gave me a wave with his hat, and went over the rise. The moment he
disappeared, I had a strange feeling.

It was relief. Glad he was gone.

Now, you need to know I liked Weber. He was a good man and a
good friend. If he asked my help, I would do whatever I could. But I knew him
from the militia. He had seen me wake up from dreaming of the blue-eyed man.
With Weber gone, I thought the militia and war belonged to the past, I could
begin my life, my new life. I had a future again.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Remembering those months at home always gives me a special
feeling. I really don’t know how to explain it, or even what to call it. When
you put a name to something, it’s like putting a nail through it. The nail
holds it in place so you can find it again, but it takes the breathing life out
of it too. The feeling I had was like seeing the first trickles of spring
snowmelt coming through an ice-choked streambed. You see that trickle and know
the world will soon be green and warm, full of life. Let’s just say I was
happy.

If you had been around, you wouldn’t have seen much worth
the seeing. I was 19 going on 20. I lived in the only home, and slept in the
only bed, I had ever had. At dawn, I would be up and working, doing my chores,
often until dark. If I could, I would visit Maggie and chop some wood. On a
Friday or Saturday night, there might be a dance in one of the larger houses
about. On Sunday, I would sit with my parents and Maggie in church. And when I
wasn’t too tired in the evenings, I would sit close to the fire and read a
book. And maybe you wouldn’t have noticed, but I had stopped carrying my rifle
everywhere.

The most important thing for me in those days was Maggie. I
don’t remember when or how it happened, but Maggie and I, and everyone around
us too, stopped wondering if we would be married. Instead, we knew. That
knowing was the warmth in the heart of that winter. It was the newness of my
new life.

Now and then, I would have a restless night filled with
thoughts of the past, with the tangle of things I had done and failed to do. I
would sit in the dark, thinking of Jane and Riley, and all the rest of it. I
couldn’t make the thoughts go away. But I could stand it because I knew if I
held on, dawn would set me free. And that was how it was until a cold gray day
in March.

I was chopping wood when Riley came around a corner of the
house. For a moment, I wondered if he was real. Then I leaned the ax against
the house and went over to him. I was so surprised I didn’t know what to say or
do.

“Hey,” he said and stuck out his hand.

I shook it and said, “Hey.”

Then happiness pushed everything else aside. My friend was
alive. He had come through. I threw my arms around him and pounded him on the
back. He did the same, but with only one hand. The other still held a rifle.

It wasn’t till I had him inside, getting warm at the fire,
that I remembered where Riley lived. He couldn’t be on his way home. It was in
the opposite direction. He could’ve only come here to find me, to tell me
something. And the thought of what it might be frightened me.

I sat down facing him. He was looking into the fire. For one
long strange moment, I was sure he had come to tell me Jane was dead. In that
moment, I was back on that dark street, the soldiers shooting at us, Jane going
down, and I was waiting to see if the world would keep on turning.

Then I was just as sure Jane was alive and that she had sent
Riley to get me.
No, not this time
, I
thought.
I’m not coming this time
.

“Tell me,” I said.

“Jane wants you to come back.”

“Come back? What for? The war’s over. The soldiers are
gone.”

“No. Not over. Not gone. It just stopped for a spell. Jane
says the war will start again in the spring.”

“So that’s what Jane says. What about Campbell?
What about Winslow? What do they say?”

“Don’t know what they say. But Jane says--”

“Jane says?! I’ve had enough of what Jane says. I don’t give
a damn what she says anymore!” By the time I was finished, I was standing up,
shouting at him.

Riley didn’t get angry. He just sat there and took it.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sitting down again. “I didn’t mean to .
. .” I trailed off, feeling foolish.

“I know. I told her you’d feel this way. Told her it was a
waste of time. But she wanted me to ask. So I asked.” Then he looked into the
fire.

“I’m getting married in the spring,” I said, trying to get
us talking about something else.

“Good. What was her name? Maggie?”

“Yeah.”

We were quiet for a while. He looked into the fire,
scratching his beard.

I told him about seeing Weber, and about Stokes and Harris.
Riley said he knew and told me Carl was dead.

“Soldiers?”

“No, his heart just gave out. He was too old to go running
around the mountains. I don’t know how he lasted as long as he did. He was more
than sixty.”

I nodded. I knew they had likely buried him in some
forgotten hole. I wondered if, at the very end, he still thought helping Jane
was the best thing he had ever done.
Too late to ask.

We were quiet again for a while.

“If they call up the militia again,” I said, “I’ll go but .
. .”

“I know,” Riley said. “I’d do the same in your shoes.” Then
he stood up and walked over to his hat, bedroll, and rifle.

I realized he was getting ready to leave.

“Come on,” I said. “Stay a while. Have dinner with us and
sleep in a real bed. My father will want to break out the whiskey.”

Riley smiled at this, thanked me, and said he had to go,
started toward the door.

“Don’t go,” I said, feeling bad about the way I had shouted
at him. But I realized that had nothing to do with it. The bad feeling was from
the choice I had made.

“Wish I could,” he said, already at the door putting out his
hand. We shook hands without saying anything more, and he went out. I stepped
outside and watched him walk away and go around the corner of the house. He
didn’t look back.

After a while, I guess I went back to chopping wood. I don’t
remember. Work had always made my tangled thoughts go away. Not this time. I
was walking about, doing chores, and eating the evening meal with my parents,
but all the while listening to gunfire and shouts, seeing blood, smelling
smoke.

That night, I didn’t want to go to sleep. I knew who would
be waiting for me there. Ever since I had started for home, he had been close.
He was stalking me, staying just beyond the edge of my thoughts. So I sat in
the dark and looked at my bed, wondering how long I could stay awake. But I
realized that was foolish. The dead have no need of rest. The blue-eyed man had
all the time in the world. He could wait.

So I lay down and closed my eyes, trembling with the fear.
But finally sleep came.
Then the dream.

I was alone, walking through piney woods at twilight. The
trees were immense, thick, tall, and very old. There was no undergrowth, just a
thick layer of needles covering easy rolling ground. It was a beautiful soft
summer evening.

Twilight faded to darkness. But I kept walking. It was too
dark to see which direction I should go. But I realized--as if I knew this was
a dream--any direction would take me where I had to go.

At first, I could hear all the sounds of the woods at night,
crickets, and birds, now and then the soft scurry of something four-legged
getting out of my path. But all the sounds went away when I caught sight of the
fire. Someone had made a camp and built a fire. That’s where I was going.

As I moved toward it, the silence of the woods, of the whole
world, deepened and swallowed me. I couldn’t hear my boots on the pine needles.
I couldn’t even hear my own breathing.

The fire was in the center of a clearing. As soon as I
stepped out from the trees, I felt afraid. I moved forward in a crouch. But no
one was there. No camp, no bedrolls, no cooking pots.
Just a
big fire, set in the middle of a perfect circle of stones, burning in absolute
silence.
It gave no heat, only light.
Cold silent
light.

I squatted by the fire until I saw movement on the other
side. It was a man carrying a rifle in the crook of his left arm. As he moved
into the light, I realized it wasn’t a man. It was Jane--Jane just as I had
first seen her.
The same baggy britches.
The same
chopped up hair. The fire reflected in her eyes.

I stood up, and we looked at each other across the fire.
Then I felt she was asking me for something, asking with her eyes. And I
answered without words. I couldn’t, or just wouldn’t, give what she was asking
for. She appeared to understand this, but it made her sad. She nodded and
turned to go back into the darkness. Before she disappeared, she stopped and
looked at me again. Then she was gone.

I started to turn away, but I saw someone else coming out of
the dark. Expecting it to be Jane’s uncle, I smiled. But it wasn’t her uncle.
He looked at me, his blue eyes steady and calm. For a long time, we didn’t
move. Then he stepped into the fire and nodded.
An
invitation.
I nodded and stepped into the fire as well.

It was cold in there, colder than any winter night I had
ever known. The cold didn’t surprise me or even bother me. But the silence was
replaced by a storm of sound, a maddening roar that swept away everything, but
hatred and rage.

The blue-eyed man and I stood still for a moment, gathering
our strength. And we leapt at one another.

Then I was sitting up in my bed. My blankets were on the
floor and I shaking with cold. After the light and roar of the fire, I was
shocked by the darkness and silence of my room. I grabbed a blanket and wrapped
it around my shoulders.

My hands were shaking as I put on my boots, loaded my rifle,
and gathered other things I would need. My hands were still shaking when I
wrote the note to my parents and to Maggie. Leaving a note, of course, wasn’t
right. But I knew they would ask me why I was going. I had no answer. And they
would talk me into staying. It would be easy because I wanted to stay and was
afraid to go. I had to leave. The note just said that I was sorry and that I
hoped to be back soon. I left it on the kitchen table and went out the back
door into the cold an hour before first light.

I didn’t stop shaking until the sun was well up, warming me
as I climbed the trail, a steep trail that would take me back to where I would
find Riley.
And Jane.