What the Ravens Sing, page 45
part #4 of The London Charismatics Series
An archaic symbol. No—something else. Something she recognized.
A black shape flapped to a heavy landing on top of it, letting out a croak that cut through the fog in her ears.
Hands dragged at the earth that held her like a lover.
Pain came, screaming into her awareness.
The world sank into darkness.
~
She was floating, jolting and awkward. The dull sky came back into view, the horizon at the periphery of her vision titling as the angle changed. It was jagged with the forms of a large company of men, a field of dull green khaki.
The hats, she thought distantly. There was something odd about the hats.
“Oy! Clear the road, mates!”
The English of the call was strangely accented. Lily placed it as the clouds swam overhead, briefly interrupted by the appearance of a mud and blood-splattered young male face.
New Zealand. What was a New Zealander doing here?
The incongruity almost made her chuckle. The movement sent a sharp, terrible pain through her chest.
The gray faded to a point and slipped away.
~
Lily came to herself again in a darkness that hummed quietly with the murmur of low voices, a rustle of cloth, and the soft ting of glass. It was softened at the edges by the low warmth of lamplight.
Slowly she oriented herself. She could feel cloth under her back. Some kind of cot? A breeze blew on her gently. She could hear the chirp of a few crickets.
She blinked her eyes, willing them to focus. The light glowed across wooden poles and canvas that angled to a peak somewhere beyond her view.
It’s a tent, she thought blurredly. A big one.
Lily attempted a slow, careful turn of her head to the side. The movement hurt. She made it far enough to see rows of beds housing an irregular terrain of ragged bodies. Some of them shifted, the odd moan or bark of dull laughter punctuating the softer landscape of sound that surrounded her.
Other forms moved lightly and quietly along the aisles, carrying water and clean linens.
She was in a hospital tent.
The bed beside her was empty, the blanket loosely thrown back as though someone had just left it. Beyond that, above her head, the side of the tent was open to a night scented with spring grass.
She took a silent, careful inventory. There was a sharp pain in her chest. Her left arm ached. Something tight was wrapped around it.
Her right leg felt thick, heavy . . . almost distant. She resisted the urge to test it, instinct urging her to caution.
Something else was off as well. She felt it like a sharpening of sensation in her skin. It was as though her nerves had heightened in counterpoint to some other absence, one she could not yet name.
Fingers brushed against her arm. Lily looked up into the brown oval of a female face. It stared down at her briefly, then flickered away.
A moment later, there was a deeper creak of movement, canvas settling over a frame against some substantial weight. A large, gentle hand lifted her right wrist, big fingers slipping over her pulse.
Lily willed her head into another turn.
“Hello, doctor,” she rasped, her voice a sandpaper whisper.
“Glad to see you are once again with us,” Dr. Gardner replied.
His big frame was perched on a camp stool beside her bed, dressed in the uniform of the Royal Army Medical Corps, the cross-shaped badge visible on his sleeve.
“Have you made your assessment?” Lily asked.
It felt like she was speaking through gravel. Gardner gently released her.
“Fractured left wrist,” he listed. “Punctured lung. I was able to relieve the pressure with a needle, at least, so you haven’t a great bloody hole in your chest. Multiple lacerations—I won’t bother to list them. You’ll find them for yourself soon enough. The most concerning is at the side of your calf, below the right knee. You were pierced by a splinter of the planking from the trench wall. The wound itself is minor, but there is damage to one of the nerves. I cannot say what that will mean. Your head, hard as it is, is more or less intact, for which you owe a great deal of thanks to every deity from here to Timbuktu.”
He paused, looking down at her meaningfully.
“So is the rest of what you’re carrying.”
Emotion flooded in, burning away the remaining fog of indifference in a crashing wave of horror, fear, and relief. Lily choked on a sob, her hand clenching weakly at the fabric of her shirt as though making a feeble and belated effort to protect the life that sheltered within her.
The madness of it threatened to drown her—how much she had risked, how dearly it might have cost her—even as the truth resounded under her skin, plain and undeniable.
It was the only way.
She looked up at her friend, absorbing the small miracle that it was his hospital she had landed in, and forced out the most important question—the one she was terrified to ask.
“Anthony.”
“He is alive,” Gardner answered.
He took her hand again, this time simply for comfort as the relief of it washed over her, leaving her breathless.
He is alive.
“Tell me,” she demanded.
“He dislocated his left shoulder. There is some damage to the ligaments, but they should heal on their own with time. Four fractured ribs. You’ll be able to tell him all about how that feels while healing, won’t you? A particularly nasty slice to his back that took twenty stitches or so to tie up and a mild concussion. He was asphyxiated for longer than you, but some clever bastard managed to get him onto oxygen on the way here. And, of course, he’s more or less one enormous bruise . . . but he’ll be fine, Lily.”
She absorbed the list of damage. It was so much less than it should have been.
At the sound of that terrible word—asphyxiation—she remembered the choking sensation of the earth. The way it had closed over her, thick and cold as the grave.
“Where is he?”
“A colleague of mine is seeing to the stitches. They’ll tidy him up and bring him back shortly.”
Her fingers brushed against the empty bed. The blanket was still warm.
Alive.
“How?”
The word was heavy with all the terrible weight of what should have been.
“Sam saw you go down,” Gardner replied. “Hauled a sergeant and two privates into digging. Still might not have managed it if he hadn’t also set a handful of rats to sniffing you out. I gather the wee monsters went to it without the usual rigmarole. Must’ve sensed his desperation.”
Lily thought of what she knew of how Sam’s power worked. Yes, she thought distantly. The rats would have known. Would have understood that he was trying to save the lives of those he loved.
Gardner’s kind face was drawn.
“I don’t think I have to tell you how near a thing it was. A minute or two longer … ”
Lily gave his hand a squeeze. She knew perhaps better than anyone just how close it had been.
“But the shell … ” she protested.
“Should have torn you apart,” Gardner agreed. “Would have, too, if it weren’t for the tree.”
“Tree?”
“Or what was left of one. The pair of you just happened to fall against the root system buried in the wall of the trench. It took the brunt of the impact, sheltering you from the worst of it. You were really only buried by a foot or so.” He paused. “One of the lads who brought you in said it was an ash.”
The impact of it dizzied her. For a breath, she was back in the place beyond the doors—the threads that held the world together glittering in the light of distant stars.
“I’m afraid I’ve men waiting on me,” Gardner said, breaking the spell as he shifted to his feet, glancing at something behind her. “I’ll leave you to it and check back in a little while.”
Lily turned her head.
Strangford had returned. He looked like hell.
His grizzled cheek was marred by a red abrasion. A cut crossed his forehead, set off by neat black stitches.
He dropped his Navy jacket on the empty cot with his free hand. The other was strapped to his chest by white bandages that immobilized his shoulder. The blue wool of his uniform was filthy with dirt and blood. Someone must have given him a new shirt.
His eyes were darkly circled, his face pale.
Lily pushed herself up instinctively, trying to rise to meet him. The pressure of her elbow against the cot sent a sharp dart of pain through her left wrist, which was encased in plaster. It made her gasp.
A hand came to her chest, halting her with exquisite gentleness. Strangford dropped to an awkward knee beside her, wincing.
“You really ought not do that.”
She felt the words echo across time and choked out a laugh as she slipped a hand across his bare fingers, clutching at them.
“Everything hurts,” he admitted.
His words were touched with a natural wryness. The warm seed of relief grew inside of her.
Lily reached up to touch his face, fingers following the familiar line of his jaw under the rough texture of his stubble.
It was the most perfect thing she had ever felt.
His expression shifted, growing lean and desperate.
“You shouldn’t have done it.”
Lily slipped her hand into the back of his hair. Threading her fingers there, she uttered her reply.
“I could not lose you.”
He let his head fall to her breast, still clutching her hand.
The night breeze danced across her skin as he pulled back, then kissed her. It tasted of everything that had very nearly gone wrong.
Pale fingers glided across her cheek.
“Remind me to show you how grateful I am . . . just as soon as I figure out how to get back up again.”
Lily laughed, joy bubbling out of her.
Alive.
~
Lily wasn’t certain whether she had slept. It was too noisy in the hospital tent, even at the low murmur of the night watch. Then there was the pain. A nurse had offered her morphine, but Lily refused it, uneasy with the prospect of oblivion when she had only just escaped it.
That strange feeling of absence also itched at her like a healing wound, a subtle hollowness she couldn’t quite mesh with any of the list of injuries Gardner had diagnosed in her.
A shift of movement to her right drew her attention as a dark figure slipped up from the camp stool by her cot.
“Sam,” she said softly.
He stilled, his shoulders drawing up under his coat.
“You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he complained.
His face was lined with exhaustion, his dark hair mussed. He must have washed up, but his coat was still splattered with mud and something Lily strongly suspected was blood, only hastily wiped away. He still hadn’t shaved.
“What happened to your shirt?”
The words felt thick in Lily’s mouth.
Sam glanced down. He wore only the black coat over his trousers, his chest bare save for the bandages that wrapped around the middle of it. They were softly tinged here and there with seeping spots of blood.
Lily thought of the injuries she had seen on him during the battle. He would have new scars to add to his collection.
“Some nurse ran off with it. Wanted me to put on one of those bloody johnnies.” He scratched at the bandages. “Woman asked if I was in the canine unit. Told her I was a pilot. Should’ve seen the look on her.”
He pulled out a near-empty pack of cigarettes. The nurse in the next row meaningfully cleared her throat, and he sadly returned them to his coat pocket.
“Heard you’re alright, then,” he noted, his voice clipped.
Lily looked up at him—her beautiful, dangerous friend.
“I gather we have you to thank for that.”
Sam’s words took on a thin edge of desperation.
“Just don’t bloody do it again. Alright?”
She turned her head. Strangford lay on the next cot, his face relaxed with deep sleep. She felt a sad smile tug at the corner of her mouth.
“Anthony would tell you we have no intention of it.”
“Him, I might even believe,” Sam retorted.
He rose.
“There’s something I need to take care of.”
Lily came to an instant decision.
“I’m coming with you.”
His eyes widened with alarm.
“Are you cracked?”
She managed, carefully, to maneuver herself into a sitting position with one hand. Her chest twinged, making her short of breath.
“Help me up,” she ordered.
There was a brief internal war before he gave in. He took hold of her good arm, lending his strength to lever her up from the cot.
Her injured arm ached in protest. So did a dozen other places in her body. Her right ankle and foot felt strange—numb and wooden. She tried to take a step. It felt as though the limb was dragging, her foot refusing to answer her commands.
“I might need a little help,” she admitted.
Wordlessly, he came to her side, slipping his arm around her waist. She set her own over his shoulder, and they hobbled together out the side of the tent.
A horse waited in the darkness under the shadow of a chestnut tree. It was a black gelding, sleek and powerful. In the shadows, one could almost overlook the fact that it had not been tied up.
“Who’s that?” Lily demanded.
“It’s not like he gave me a name,” Sam countered crossly.
“But where did you get him?”
“What do you mean, ‘get him?’ Maybe he’s the one who followed me.”
“Sam … ”
“You coming or not?”
Lily eyed the animal warily. It was massive.
“I’m not sure I could get up there,” she admitted.
“No worries about that,” Sam cheerfully replied. He clicked his tongue. “Tch. Come on, you.”
With surprising grace, the gelding knelt down on the grass.
“Climb behind me. Use your good wing to hang on. I’ll keep you steady.” Sam promised.
Lily carefully settled herself at Sam’s back. She wrapped her good arm around his waist, resting her splinted wrist against her thigh. The wound in her calf twinged with mild protest, along with a host of other bruises, but it was tolerable.
Sam gave the gelding another click of the tongue, and with terrifying strength, the horse pushed up from the ground. Lily tightened her grip on Sam, but he was solid as a rock, his seat on a horse rivaling even Strangford’s.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lily replied.
“Nice and easy, then, mate,” Sam instructed the horse.
They set off at a smooth, steady walk, following the rutted track of the road. Lily let herself fall against his back, comforted by the warmth of it and the steady rhythm of his movement.
Darkened fields gradually gave way to scattered fires and clustered tents as the dark hulk of Mont Noir rose before them. The gelding moved aside for a row of transport lorries that trundled past, their headlamps painting the landscape with a stark glare, illuminating a field gun rolling slowly through an intersection.
Something about the busy scene struck Lily with surprise.
“There are too many men,” she exclaimed, straightening. “Where did they come from?”
“They’re ANZACs,” Sam replied shortly.
“Australians?” she echoed with shock.
“Mostly Kiwis, so far as I can tell,” Sam corrected her.
“But what are they doing here?”
“Seems there was a bit of a mix-up with the transportation logistics. A maintenance crew shut down the railway tracks halfway between Hazebrouck and Poperinge just as a run with two New Zealand companies was headed through. Their captain marched them to the line to find a way to communicate with headquarters and get updated orders . . . and it just happened they showed up as our lot was getting shelled. Boche spotters must’ve seen them coming and thought they were proper reinforcements. After their first wave had failed to break through, that was enough to make them call off the rest of the attack.” He glanced back at her, his eyes glittering in the darkness. “Funny sort of mix-up that drops a load of fresh troops an hour’s march from our position.”
“George,” Lily whispered, feeling the truth of it in her aching bones.
She recalled her brother’s “dreadful puzzle”—the complex web of men, roads, rails and supplies that was the lifeblood of the war—and the brief, crackling words over a bad phone line in Bergues.
… never underestimate . . . schedules …
The warmth of it washed through her. He had made a bit of the earth move to bring her the help she needed on nothing more than her word.
Her brother.
“Bit farther to go,” Sam said, tapping their horse on the shoulder.
The flank of Mont Noir was highlighted by a strange orange glow. Beyond the familiar stink of petrol from the passing lorries, the air smelled of fresh grass, turned earth, and smoke.
Fire bloomed into view as they rounded the shadowy bulk of the hill, approaching the front line. It burned low and smoldering from a pit dug by an artillery shell. The ruddy light spilled across a barren stretch of ground near the trenches. A few figures were silhouetted there, watching the smoldering blaze.
As the gelding halted at the outskirts of it, a kilted Black Watch private and a hatless ANZAC soldier hauled something toward the pit. Between them, they tossed it in on top of the rest of what was burning.
The recognition dawned over her, carried as much by the smell as the sight.
They were bodies.
No one spoke as Sam dismounted, then helped her down with careful hands. Lily climbed awkwardly to the edge of the hole. The man next to her turned to see who had come, and she recognized the bruised, drained face of Captain Ambarsan.
