He couldn’t remember how long it was since he’d eaten, or what day it was. He’d drunk fresh water from a spring…when had that been? Yesterday perhaps?
He shivered, knowing the heat was coming back, the violent surge of fire over his flesh and his skin. How much more could he take…how many more times could he survive the sweating and the shivering? He didn’t know. He itched, his gut had churned and emptied itself. Now there was nothing left inside him to lose.
His mind wandered, and this was the most frightening thing…he talked to people who weren’t there. They stared at him, pointing, amazed at the torn uniform. Sometimes they spoke French and he wondered if he’d been captured at Waterloo and was in a French prison.
His friends drifted by. Those he’d seen blown to pieces on the battlefield. Some were intact, others missing a limb or two. He cried for them, great ragged sobs, emotions he could not have released during the fight.
Tripping over a root, he found himself on a bed of moss beneath a large tree. It was damp, but as good a place as any to die.
For he knew death wasn’t far away.
It had been his companion during those terrible hours on the field. Dodging bullets, avoiding cannonballs and the pits they left, deadly traps for unwary horsemen.
He’d carried the colours that eventful day. A task he relished with pride and tried to honour as best he could. When the fighting grew thick and fierce, he’d grabbed a riderless horse and mounted, the flag unfurling as he rode toward the front, screaming like an Irish banshee. He recalled every detail now, although at the time he’d been aware only of death.
The sounds, the smells, the ugliness of war…all now a part of what made him human.
Who was he? He couldn’t recall his name for the moment, but it really didn’t matter. What was one more dead soldier, when added to the thousands who would march no more?
He let go of the pack he’d clung to for so long that his fingers were locked around the straps. He wouldn't need the few useless belongings it contained any more. Never would again, most likely. He could rest his head on it, at least, as he drew what was left of his torn blanket over his torn and grimy uniform and closed his eyes. He didn’t recall where he’d found the blanket. It no longer mattered.
Somewhere he could hear the ocean. Soft laps, ripples, the sound of the waves on a beach.
It was soothing, lulling him into a state of half-consciousness, encouraging him to let go of the agonies his body and his mind endured.I am eternal, it said.Be one with me.
He gasped as the heat hit, searing his skin, making him yearn to rip off his clothes. But he had no strength to do so, so he let the fever take him, praying it would be quick and painless.
Dimly, he heard the rain dropping from the leaves, and as he clung to the shreds of his existence, he prayed.Dear Lord, please forgive my sins and take me into your hands. I have no heart left for this life.Another wracking spasm of pain hit his bones and he cried out in despair, wonder if this was God’s answer. A reminder of the frailties and fallibilities of humans and the horrors they were capable of committing against each other.
He whimpered, his vision blurring, tears seeping from his eyes. “I am going to die…”
“No you’re not,” answered a soft voice. A hand touched his forehead. “But you are very ill. So please be brave just a little while longer? Soon you will be better.”
He forced his eyelids to open and saw…the face of an angel. Or a magical fae creature. Her eyes were the strangest shade of blue and she was gazing at him with worry.
“Yes, that’s it. Keep looking at me. I have a friend with me who is very strong. He is going to pick you up now, and carry you to my home.” She touched him, moving his clothing, laying her hand on his forehead. “He has no broken bones or wounds that I can find, although there is a bump on the back of his head.”
He was speechless. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking, his skin on fire and his mind…well if this was a dream, then he was probably dead already, or very close to it.
He tried to form words, but they stuck in his throat, and then he found himself wrapped again in the old blanket and lifted gently by a pair of strong arms. The movement made him feel quite sick, so he closed his eyes again as he groaned.
“Hold on, sir. Just hold on. We will help you, I promise.”
Once again that soft palm touched his face. He managed one more quick glimpse, and what breath he had left caught in his lungs.
“Moira…”
