Megiddo's Shadow (26 page)

E
MILY
W
ATSON

B
ELOVED

A
PRIL
12, 1897-M
AY
19, 1918

I stared at the mound of earth, not yet grown over with grass. She was twenty-one. I finally knew her age.

“I loved you.” I tried not to fall to my knees. “I loved you, Emily”

Like a fool, I hadn't brought any flowers, so I reached into my kit bag. My Lines Yeomanry cap badge was all I had. If I left that on top someone would steal it. I dug into the earth next to her headstone, the gesture reminding me of my father looking for moisture in the soil. When I'd buried it there, I stood up. The shadow of the church was working its way over the graves. I wanted to say so many things, to tell her about Buke, about Cheevers, about everything I'd seen,
but I was mute. It began to snow, large flakes sticking to my coat.

Sensing I was being watched, I turned slowly. Someone stood behind me on the path, hidden in the shadows of the church wall. I allowed myself to believe it was Emily; I saw the familiar slant of her nose, the shape of her eyes. For a moment I let my spirit soar.

But the woman took a step out of the shadow and I saw that it was Emily's mother. Crying.

“I'm sorry!” She dabbed at her eyes. “I wanted you to have your time alone with her, but I—I need to talk to someone who knew her. I really miss her.”

“I do, too.”

She moved hesitantly toward me. “I can see why she fell in love with you.”

She held me and I put my arms around her. “She was so pretty,” her mother said, “so pretty.” Her sobs were muffled by my shoulder. I wanted to say I didn't deserve to be held like this, I had marched off to war and killed men, but I thought of Emily and a fleeting sense of sad peace came over me.

T
he voyage to Halifax was long and tiring. I spent my days wandering the deck of the
Orduna
or lying in my third-class bunk, not once feeling seasick. Whenever the ship shook, I wondered if it was a shell.

Soon I was on a tram, chugging through the provinces, and traveling deeper and deeper into winter. The car grew colder with each passing hour, and I was glad for the thickness of my greatcoat. I shared the car with several young soldiers, their hair freshly cut and their eyes full of life. They laughed and sang, relieved that the war was over. They hadn't had to leave the country.

I was one of the few without a uniform, though my greatcoat was an obvious military issue. I was thankful no one spoke to me. I stared out the window, watching the snow fall.

“Hey, mate!” I looked up to see Cheevers lurching forward, a red hole in his head. I gasped and grabbed the armrest, then blinked. One of the soldiers had taken Cheevers's place, leaning forward so his friend could light his cigarette.

The tram stopped in Moose Jaw. The recruiting car was long gone, and the tram station, where we'd stood and saluted Sergeant Billings, was nearly deserted. I thought of Paul; he would be in one of the houses somewhere nearby. I hoped he was warm, his family close around him. I promised myself I'd look him up one day, then swore it on Emily's grave, to be sure I would do it.

In the early evening the tram pulled up to the Tompkms station, and I was the only passenger to detrain. I walked across the wooden platform, my kit bag over my shoulder. Though my wounds were mostly healed, the scars throbbed with each step.

I walked down Mam Street, past the outdoor rink where I'd played hockey, and over the fields. The wind jabbed cold fingers through the holes in my greatcoat. There were no leaves on the trees, and my footprints were fresh and clean. Years earlier, whenever snow fell so perfectly, Dad would hook up the horse to the sleigh and take us out under the stars, the reins in one hand, the other arm around my mom's shoulders. The thought of it put a lump in my throat.

The gate to New Aylesby Farms was open, and a shutter on the house banged occasionally. Dad had always insisted a lamp be left lit in the window during winter nights in case there was a storm. That way we would be able to find our way home. Tonight there wasn't a light to be seen.

I walked in the front door and set my rucksack down. My heart beat heavily and my palms sweated. “Hello!” I called, my voice hoarse. “Hello?”

I climbed the stairs and paused to look at my mother's picture. She would always be the same age, staring back at me. I ached, seeing how much I looked like her. The ache continued as I glanced at the photograph of Hector and me; we were just children.

I stood outside the master bedroom and gently pushed on the heavy door.

“Father?”

The bed was empty. In fact, it had been made! I hurried down the stairs and into the living room. I'd left the front door ajar, the cold seeping in. I peered out at the yard. There was nothing moving around the barn and there were no cattle in the pen. Just as I closed the door, at the edge of my vision, I caught a movement in the den.

I crossed the foyer and looked in. Dad sat in his chair, wearing his coat, melting snow dripping from his boots. He glared at me.

“I told you not to go,” he said quietly.

“I know, Dad.”

“All this time. Waiting. Worrying.” 1 wrote.

He grimaced. “I know. But you left me here alone. With all this work to do. Alone.”

I'm sorry.

“How can I be sure you're real? Whenever the floorboards creak, I think it's one of you boys sneaking up the stairs. Or your mom bringing lemon tea.”

“I'm home, Dad. It's me.”

Anger and doubt lurked in his eyes. I stepped into the den and he got up slowly, as if it was a great effort. I was surprised to discover that we now stood eye to eye. In the year I'd been away I had grown.

He moved toward me suddenly, and I stepped back, thinking he wanted to strike me. But instead, he opened his arms and held me so tight against his chest that my ribs and shoulder ached, but I didn't care. I hugged him back, tears in my eyes, as he said, “Don't you ever go away again.”

D
ad put together a meal for me: leftover roast from one of our steers, and garden potatoes. He'd received the official telegram about my being mentioned in dispatches, and told me how proud he was but didn't press for details. I didn't want to discuss it further anyway.

Later, too tired to talk, I climbed into my own sweet bed. The pillow was so familiar and soft, a luxury I'd long forgotten. The room was as undisturbed as an Egyptian tomb. My Kipling books were on the shelves, the stack of
Boy's Own Papers
sat on the side table, and the African spear from Hilts still hung on my wall.

I was home. I closed my eyes, hoping for my first good night's sleep in weeks. I was just nicely drifting off when I heard the wind, and it reminded me of the strange, godawful punctured-lung wheezing of Buke in his last moments. Then I worried that Emily had made the same sound
as her life had been torn from her, her beautiful body shattered by the bomb.

My eyes snapped open and I stared into the dark, and still the images remained, impossible to shake. Each one had been etched into my memory forever.

Why had I lived? So many were dead, but I still breathed the air.
Why me?

I tossed and turned, unable to leave the war behind. Frustrated, I sat up and decided to go for a walk. Downstairs, I pulled on my greatcoat, expecting Dad to appear any second to tell me to get back up to bed. He had left the lamp burning in the window.

The beauty of the front yard, its white carpet of snow and frosted trees, was something from a fairy tale. The Jordan Valley and its terrible heat had made me believe I'd never see such a sight again.

I opened the barn door with a good tug, stepped inside, and began to gag. The air was warm and moist and heavy with the smell of horses. One neighed as though asking a question. Buke! His wonderful face flashed before me. I stumbled back out and leaned against the fence, taking deep, ragged breaths, the cold cutting into my lungs. I cleared my throat and spat. After several minutes, I found the strength to carry on.

I trudged out of the pen and into the pasture. It was unusually mild. The stars were small and distant, a sliver of the moon scarring the sky. I wandered until I found myself in front of the church. I looked at the door for a long time and finally went in. The stained-glass windows were barely visible, but as a child I'd memorized them. Back then the mere
sight of them would fill me with the fear of God and longing for the warmth and love of Jesus. And now I felt nothing.

At the altar I stared up at the carving of Jesus on the cross. Eternally in agony, he looked blissfully heavenward. I'd seen that same agony in the faces of the wounded on the battered
Mercian
, heard it in the Barada Gorge, smelled it in the aid post. I had imagined it on the faces of the people I had loved. For all that, Jesus wouldn't even look me in the eye. He was too busy gazing at his Father in heaven.

“I walked everywhere you walked,” I whispered, “and I didn't see you anywhere.”

He had died for us; died so that we might live. Live for what? To fire bullets through one another's brains? To drop bombs? Where was his almighty Father in all of that? He hadn't lifted a holy finger to stop it.

“You weren't anywhere!” I yelled, and picked up a psalm-book, slamming it on the altar. I whacked at the altar again, then stood there, shaking uncontrollably. I wanted to pitch the book through one of the stained-glass windows, but instead, I flung it to the floor and looked for something larger to throw. With a sweep of my hand, I knocked away the candles and they clunked across the floor.

“Stop that!” a gruff voice yelled from the back of the church. I turned to face Reverend Ashford.

“Who are you?” He charged down the aisle, dressed in his black robe. “What are you doing?”

“I've come to pay my respects!”

“Respects?” Ashford stopped a few feet away, and the anger in his eyes matched mine. Then he raised his eyebrows. “Edward? Is it you?”

I glared at him, breathing hard, not sure what to do next.

“Edward?”

“It was all a lie.”

“What was?”

“All of it. Everything.” Then finally the words I most needed to say. “There is no God. And no Son of God. There can't be.”

I expected an argument, but he only nodded, as though I'd answered a question. “Let it go, then. Don't believe.”

“What?”

“If your faith is meant to be, it'll come back.”

“Are you mad? I said I don't believe anymore.”

“God forgives all. I think he would understand.”

I wanted to hit him in the gut. “What's to understand? He watches us and does nothing. He's a blackguard. To let all those people die. Hector. Cheevers. And … Emily”

“We don't know why these things are allowed to happen, Edward. We aren't meant to know. But God is here, whether you believe in him or not.”

A horrible feeling was growing inside me, a sense that I was cracking apart. Ashford went on.

“He didn't send you to war. You chose to go. You stood in this very spot and told me you wanted to go.”

The reverend placed his huge hand on the top of my head. I wanted to lash out at him for daring to touch me, for making me believe that God was good, that Christ cared.

He removed his hand and said softly, “You're allowed to mourn, Edward. It's your duty.”

“Duty?” I said, and then I wept, tears spilling to the floor. My heart, my soul, had pointed toward God, and toward
Hector, as a compass points north. Now there was no north. I was lost.

Ashford pulled me closer, pressed me to his chest. “No man was made strong enough to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

I wept for some time, drawing in deep, sobbing breaths. Then I pulled away, unable to look at him.

“There's no shame, Edward. You did everything you could. In the end we are all just men.”

I walked home through the fields. Soft falling snow shrouded the land. In the spring it would melt and fill the creeks. But for now it was winter. The light in the front window of our home glowed warm in the distance, beckoning me back to my bed.