And such a cellar. Its ceiling was lost to blackness, its walls were packed with racked bottles. How had this place escaped three years of shellfire? The prying eyes of a hundred thousand men? It felt—removed, somehow, from the world above. The noise of shelling could hardly penetrate. The sound of water dripping somewhere in the darkness was louder than the muffled roar of the heavies on Passchendaele Ridge.
Faland ran his fingertips over the racked bottles, candlelight still flickering in one fist. “It’s still here.” He sounded faintly surprised.
“You came to Ypres for wine?” said Freddie. His head felt thick, his thoughts slow and disjointed.
Faland didn’t answer but pulled a bottle, drew the cork. Took a long swallow and held out the bottle. “Drink?”
Suddenly Winter sank to the ground, still leaning against the wall, and Freddie caught him. The sweat was standing on Winter’s face, even though the cellar was cool. He made a harsh noise when Freddie pulled his wet jacket off and cut away the sleeve beneath. Even in the dim light, the wound was swollen, foul, red streaks running up and down. Winter’s eyes had drifted shut. Faland,obligingly, had pushed his candle over, so Freddie could see the details of advancing gangrene.
“Sir?” said Freddie, in a voice that wavered. “Do you have any bandages, or clean cloth, so I can—”
Faland had been watching them with intent, curious eyes. He said, unexpectedly, “I can do better than that,” and got up. He was gone, leaving them the light, before Freddie had time to react. Winter didn’t speak.
Freddie fumbled with their nearly empty canteen. “Drink this, then, at least,” he whispered, putting the metal rim to Winter’s lips. Winter did drink, a little. “Why do you say not to trust him?” Freddie asked. “Do you think he’s gone to tell them we’re here?”
Winter’s good hand came up and gripped Freddie’s forearm. “Couldn’t you see? All around him?”
“See what all around him?”
“Ghosts,” said Winter. “What does he want with everyone’s ghosts?”
Winter was raving. Comfort poured awkwardly from Freddie’s lips. “No— Winter, no. He’s an eccentric, he’s—”
“Iven, he’s—”
Faland’s uneven step sounded on the stairs, another candle held before him. Freddie turned to Faland, almost with relief. He didn’t want to be afraid of Faland, didn’t want their one piece of good luck to be false. “It must be murder keeping matches dry,” he said a little at random, with a nod at the candle.
Faland shrugged, slid a bag off his shoulder, and opened it. Freddie watched in helpless gratitude as its contents were laid out: a bottle of iodine, a wad of clean, dry bandages, a large canteen of water, biscuit, canned meat, and even, wondrously, a dry wool blanket. The candlelight flickered on Faland’s face, picked out the deep orbits of the eyes, the lines round his mouth. Freddie touched the bounty reverently. “How did you get all this?”
“Nothing easier. I was a soldier once.” Faland’s eyeteeth were just a little sharp. “A bad soldier. Takes one to know one, Isuppose.” His knowing gaze rested on them both, then he turned away, uncorked a fresh bottle, and offered it to Freddie. After a hesitation, Freddie took a sip. It was a glorious wine; it left him warm and languid, even unafraid, for the first time he could remember. He offered it to Winter, but Winter shook his head. Faland pushed the second candle closer so Freddie could help Winter take off the rags of shirt and jacket, could rinse the wound and pour iodine over it and bandage it fresh and give Winter the blanket. He made Winter drink the water, eat some biscuit that he’d soaked to soften it. He’d heard the Germans were going hungry, but it was something else again to see the hollows between Winter’s ribs, feel the ridges of his collarbones.
Winter’s wandering glance went again and again to Faland, and there was still that look of fear. Freddie couldn’t bear to see Winter afraid.
“Winter?” Freddie whispered, bending close, to distract him. “Winter—” He groped in his mind. “Winter—don’t be afraid. I could try to remember a poem. One of mine. You wanted to hear one of mine…”
Winter’s dazed eyes returned to Freddie’s. He nodded a little.
The only poem that came to Freddie’s mind wasn’t one of his best—it wasn’t jolly, to encourage a wounded man, nor did it even rhyme in a way that made it a pleasure to recite. But it came fountaining from his lips into Winter’s ear. And he supposed into Faland’s too, although the stranger never made a sound.
“Rain,” Freddie whispered.
Midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
Remembering again that I shall die
And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
For washing me cleaner than I have been
Since I was born into this solitude.
Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
But here I pray that none whom once I loved
Is dying tonight or lying still awake
