Unnatural Issue (39 page)

Fortunately, his brother was, at heart, a pessimist. This doomsaying had actually made him—well, not
happy,
precisely, but feeling effective. Not only was he too old to enlist, at least at this point, he was also too nearsighted. Literally. The poor fellow could not see without thick spectacles. He would die in seconds on a battlefield. His reply had cheered Peter as much as Peter could be cheered at this point.

Peter had done what he could for his own people at home. Now he had to do what he could for the people here.

One solitary little gnomelike creature had finally put his nose out into the kitchen as Susanne was making breakfast. This was definitely a cottage, and not the sort of “cottage” that Uncle Paul owned. Given what they had been hearing, she was glad now that they had abandoned it. His people had orders to strip the place to the stone, hide or cart away everything portable, and generally make it look abandoned before they sought safety for themselves. Somehow—she suspected bribery—an entire railcar full of his belongings had ended up in Calais. Then again, how much bribery would it have taken? Things were being shipped
to
the Front, not away from it. Well, the furniture, the paintings, the household goods were all in storage now. If they were not safe in Calais, she had confidence that Peter would manage shipment to England.

This was a tiny little cottage, much like the one that Peter and Garrett had shared. That was not so bad—it was less for her to clean, even if the kitchen, which consisted of a heavy wooden table, some cupboards, and a fireplace, was less than what she was used to for cooking. She did what cottagers did at home. She bought breads from the baker—and oh! French breads were a revelation! She left dishes that needed a long roasting or baking with the baker in the morning and got them again in time for dinner. She made soups and stews in a pot on a moveable hook over the fireplace and learned to fry on a griddle on the coals. Uncle Paul had actually begun complimenting her. Just yesterday he had said that she was beginning to cook like a good French housewife, which she took for a compliment.

She had smiled at the little Elemental reassuringly; this was obviously some sort of house Elemental, and they were notoriously shy of being seen by anyone but an Elemental mage.

It whispered something to her in French, too soft to understand. She shook her head and cupped her ear to indicate she couldn’t hear it. It tried again—

“Little fellow is trying to tell you there is another Earth magician approaching,” said Uncle Paul, coming in from his morning wash under the pump in the yard. “Probably with the English troops. They landed a few days ago and are finally heading to the Ardennes. Or so the paper says.”

“I don’t suppose there is a chance we would know him,” Susanne said, slowly, as her heart began to beat irregularly. Surely it wouldn’t be Charles! He was the only son, he wouldn’t be mad enough to volunteer.

Would he?

It was a ridiculous idea, but she couldn’t help herself; once breakfast was eaten and everything tidied, she positioned herself just beside the door, shelling peas for dinner, with one eye on the road. Just in case.

And when she spotted the familiar figure in the unfamiliar uniform, her heart nearly burst out of her chest. “Charles!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, and scattering the peas regardless. “Charles!”

At the sound of someone calling his name in a familiar accent, Charles Kerridge’s head snapped around, and his eyes locked on her. A wry smile greeted her, and he halted his men.

“May we use your pump, miss?” he asked politely. Clearly this was an excuse so he could talk to her. She nodded, and he ordered his men to fall out and replenish their canteens. Covered by this, he turned his attention back to her.

“Peter’s artist friend swore you were getting out of the Ardennes,” he said, and as Uncle Paul poked his head out of the doorway at the commotion, he nodded genially in that direction. “Paul Delacroix? I’m Charles Kerridge, Peter’s friend. I’ll have someone send a message back to him that you’re here. We need to keep in touch so we are able to get you and the young lady out of here.”

“Surely the boche cannot prevail against—” Uncle Paul began, indignantly, his patriotism aroused.

Charles held up a hand. “I don’t think they will get this far; we should stop them at the Ardennes. But it’s always wise to have a plan just in case. Don’t you agree?”

Uncle Paul muttered, but he finally agreed.

“Good. As soon as I am someplace with a radio or a courier making a trip back to Command, I’ll make sure he knows exactly where you are.” Just then, the last of his men finished filling his canteens at the pump. “And now I must go. Be careful, Susanne.”

“I am not the one marching into a battle!” Susanne objected—and at that very moment, she had a brilliant idea, which she was
not
going to tell Charles. Peter, though—Peter would understand. Robin had said that things were going to be very bad. She did not think that all the optimistic predictions of a two-week war were accurate. The Puck had said that things would be bad for a very long time, and she had no reason to doubt him. Which meant that Charles would be here for a very long time. She was
not
going to allow herself to be shipped off to the colonies where she would never see him again, especially not if he was going to be here, on the Front.

This would be a way in which she could be close to Charles and protected at the same time. Although she wouldn’t put it as being “close to Charles” to Peter; she would put it as “doing her part.”

Rather than reply to her, Charles just looked to Uncle Paul, who shrugged.

Then there was no more time; Charles got his men formed up into their column, and off they marched.

“You are thinking of a thing,” Uncle Paul observed. “And of that young man, so I think the thing you are thinking of will give you a way to be near to him.”

She almost denied it, but what was the point of doing that? She shrugged. “I am an Earth Master. We are healers. It would be irresponsible of me not to volunteer as a nursing sister.”

Uncle Paul stared at her for a very, very long time. “That is true,” he said, slowly. “And it is also true that doing so would send you back to the Ardennes in the wake of the troops.”

Again, she shrugged. “And I can save lives. We both know this.”

“War . . . is a terrible thing,” Paul replied, as if to himself. “And this one will be the worst mankind has ever seen, I think. Are you prepared for that?”

She was shocked. She had thought that Uncle Paul had been as certain as anyone else that this would be a short war. She looked at him askance. Again, he shrugged.

“There is something in the air of doom,” he told her. “I cannot say more than that. This is why I ordered my house to be stripped. I would not be surprised if it was soon a ruin.”

Now that shocked her, and she blinked at him. “The—one of the Elemental Princes warned me that a long, bad time was coming.”

Uncle Paul nodded again, as if this did not at all surprise him. “You are powerful; they would do that. I say again, are you prepared for more horror than you have ever seen before?”

“How can I be?” She sat down again and began shelling more peas, mechanically. “But if it is going to be
that
bad, how can I hold back and still be able to look at myself in the mirror?”

Uncle Paul sighed. “I just hope that for your sake, your spirit is very strong. Come with me.”

He motioned for her to get up, and she looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

“Because you might as well go to the nursing sisters here and persuade them to take you on now,” he said, as if this were quite the worst plan he had ever heard of in his life. “They have not enough in their ranks. They will test what you can do and give you some training. When they know you can nurse, they will send you to the Front.”

“They will?” she blurted. He sighed again.

“And, of course, since I promised Peter I would guard you, I must come too,” he said in a resigned voice. “At my age! Ah, well, I do not need two good legs to drive an ambulance. Come along.”

“I
T will all be over before Christmas,” Charles Kerridge muttered, huddled in his soggy Army greatcoat, an equally soggy woolen scarf wrapped around his head and his ears, looking out of his bunker at the shattered remains of what had once been a village. It was behind their lines—for now. That could change if the Germans made a push. Then they would fall back to trenches they had left a few weeks ago, and the Germans would take these. Or maybe they would make a push, and it would be successful, and they would have the German trenches. It would be very good if that happened; the Germans were better builders. They had built their trenches assuming they would be in them for a long time; the British and French trenches had been dug assuming it would all be very temporary.

Mid-December was no time to be living virtually out in the open in this part of the country, but that was exactly what Charles and his men were doing. They were not far from a town called La Basse, but they might just as well have been on the surface of the Moon for all the good it did them. Rain poured out of the sky without any let-up; changes in the weather only seemed to amount to “more rain” or “less rain.” Both sides had dug in after the “race to the sea,” and “dug in” was literal. The two sides had built an elaborate series of trenches facing each other, across a stretch of shattered countryside that had been dubbed No-man’s Land that went from the coast north of Calais to the Swiss border. What the generals who had ordered this had failed to take into account was that in relatively flat land like this, trenches rapidly filled with water, and the water had nowhere to go. The men lived, ate, and slept in anything from ankle-deep mud to waist-deep water. The sides of the trenches and the dugouts that provided the only shelter were inclined to collapse, and there were nothing like enough sandbags or boards to shore them up.

Death was as common a visitor as the ubiquitous rats. Snipers on both sides ensured that anyone who poked his head above the parapet was killed instantly. Artillery bombardment . . . well, that was as impersonal a form of death as the sniper was personal. A soldier could be doing anything—eating, sleeping, waiting for the enemy to decide to come over the top and charge across the empty space between the trenches. Then there would come that ominous whistling . . .

Those who knew what it meant would feel their hearts hammering as their bodies scrambled in a futile attempt to find shelter. Those who didn’t would look up dumbly.

Then would come the bursting shell, which might hit a patch of empty ground, or might hit a dugout, burying whoever was in it, or might hit the trench, obliterating everyone there. The veteran on hearing that whistle would often try to find a shell hole, thinking that, like lightning, shells would never hit the same place twice.

Right now, no one was shelling this part of the lines. Charles was not grateful; this only meant that everyone was waiting for the shelling to start again. Shelling was like the rain—more or less, but never absent. And no shelling meant that the rats were out in force.

The damned things were the size of cats and utterly fearless. They ran over your face at night; put down food for a moment, and there’d be a dozen on it when you turned back. The brown ones were the worst, gorging themselves on the dead, starting with their eyes.

Oh, yes. The dead. They were supposed to be removed and shipped home. Reality meant that unless you were an officer, that was unlikely to happen. You got shoved into a shell hole, and if you were
lucky
, you got dirt shoveled on top. Or if you’d been blown to bits, the bits just got shoveled any old where. At least three times Charles had had an arm or a leg fall out on him when he had been helping the men dig a new trench.