Along the Battlement

We gather in our makeshift camp, a scrub of branch, log and bush hidden near the eastern end of the bay. We - - myself, William Cobb and Robert Forrester - - study X’s and O’s linked by dotted lines that cover a crudely drawn map. Two brothers, Henry and James Connor lay prone nearby, on cool grass next to a fallen tree and attend to muddied rifles, worn and bent. The days have been long and lazy, this summer the hottest that we can remember in our short time here. We have spent many hours scouting and planning and it has paid off with the taking of Red Rock and the capture of the northern Ridge. And now the plan for the attack on the fort has taken shape. Cobb has organized daily explorations of the terrain, sketching these quick maps and discussing plausible scenarios for our attack. He has an eye for this, a talent for taking on and conquering the vast world around him. He has become our group’s quiet leader and my best friend. The fort will be a challenge though. It sits atop a hill, with high limestone walls on all sides protected by a surrounding moat perhaps thirty feet deep. The bay cups the south and west corners, the north and east sides open and steep, the ground barren, no trees or rock for camouflage or cover. Cobb encourages us. “A piece of cake,” he says. “A piece of cake.”

Forrester believes there may be a way into the fort, a tunnel on the west side. We head out in search and after sloughing through the thicket along the west water’s edge find a drainage tunnel leaking out between an avalanche of cascading rock. Its opening is only a yard or so across at best and it smells of heavy raw sewage.
“We ‘aint goin’ in there,” James says. “It’s too small anyway.”
“Alright,” Cobb says with a cough. “Here’s the plan. We’ll make a surprise attack from the north then. They won’t expect that.”

We creep the hill, flat on our bellies through yellowed grass and stone, black dirt grimed on our bright faces like powdered war paint. We are sitting ducks as we approach, out in the open like this but Cobb believes no one will be watching this side; it is so exposed. We believe him. Henry Connor is to my left with his younger brother at his hip. They now move in a low, slow crouch, ready to spring upon command. Up ahead is Forrester, the youngest of our group, acting as lead scout. To my right is Cobb. I stare at his shadowed face as he surveys the hilltop. He will not live to see the coming fall.

Our rifles lead the way, pointed at the ready, aimed at the quiet ramparts staring down at us. The day is getting late and there is a sense to hurry. “GO!” Cobb grunts and we pick ourselves up and charge the hill.

POW! POW! POWPOW!

There is the fierce sound of voices yelling and hooting as we race up toward the moat’s edge, firing at will, firing over the long black cannons that nose out along the battlement, silently commanding the northern horizon.

POW! POW! POWPOW!

I turn and see that Cobb has stopped running. He is sitting with his back to me, facing the darkening skyline.
“Wait!” I call to the others and rush back down.
“William. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says quietly. “Just a little winded. I feel kind of weak.”
Henry and James come sliding along side us.
“What? What’s going on?”
“Let’s head back to camp,” I say, taking William by the arm, waving Forrester back from the moat’s edge. He ambles down, joining our slow retreat.

* * * * *

There are no more campaigns for us. The fort remains occupied. The cannons watch silent out over the bay as the ghosts of our youth perform revolving plays of forceless attacks. We return to the world, to thoughts of the not-so-distant new school year and to a different battle looming, a confounding fight led by worrying adults who will struggle to understand William’s incurable illness. I will wonder what part a ten-year-old boy is supposed to play and I will struggle hard to carry on the following summer’s campaign without him.

The Amber Sea

The blizzard has picked up in intensity. It stretches along the horizon, fusing clouds, snow and iced air into one. It blasts up the drifts like white dirt dug up from the ground, a frozen burial ground encircling our thin tent, entrapping us. It may well blow us clear off this floe into the arctic sea. Captain Wells has stepped outside to secure the rigging; “batten us down for the night ahead,” he said. St. John is bundled up beside me, asleep. His eyes twitch and roll as he escapes into the warm safety of his dreams. Lucky him… able to drift off so easily.

My fingers tingle. Frostbite I’m sure but what do I know for certain? They are remote from my hands, floating just beyond but I can still see them move. I barely keep a clutch on the pint bottle. It is my true savior. My insides burn with its fire as it consumes my being, dulls my thoughts. If I could only climb inside, immerse myself in its warm amber sea. It is the color of the earth. Oh, the earth. What I wouldn’t give to have it under my feet again… green grass and the hot soil… the smell of clean rain… the seed of life bursting everywhere. There is no life here, only a bleak slab of frozen desert and a sorrowful wind that calls for me to venture out.

How have I come to such a desolate place? Was this not what I wanted? An escape? Her letter spelled out her wishes, a biting end to our engagement, pure and as cold as this foreboding landscape that surrounds my heart. Oh Emilee, I have tried but you… I cannot escape or forget.

I stare into this bottle and the calm amber rolls in a gentle wave, back and forth, side to side, leading my thoughts to a safer place - - oblivion - - slowly taking me down. I can hear it now, clearer, just beyond the flap, a whispering call beyond these thin walls. The isolation has crept in; I can’t keep it out. It is colder, though only to that of which I can feel. Captain Wells? He should have been back by now. I lean into St. John but he doesn’t stir and his eyes no longer move. I’ll wait a little longer… before I go out. The wind is insistent though, with my amber all but now gone.

A Dark Passage

Something wasn’t right. The power was out. Not unusual, Reed told himself. Out here in the country, outages were common and there had been heavy thunderstorms off to the east earlier that morning. But the phone was dead too, a long static hiss on the line.

Coop hadn’t said much until dinnertime came around.
When’s Pa coming home?
He’d been tearing around the farm all day, his eight year old legs in constant motion, head to the ground, lost in his own world.
I don’t know Reed said, working together a couple of sandwiches. Must be in town… at the Run Aground probably. Truck’s gone. He didn’t tell me nothin’ and he didn’t leave a note. Here… eat.

Coop was asleep by ten, worn out from his active day. Reed stepped out onto the porch and looked across the shifting fields. Silence. He sat on the porch swing, an oil lantern beside him. The air was cooler and still. Not a sound. Not even the usual song of crickets. But there were thunderstorms still to the east, silent with quick flashes of yellow-green light. An orange moon cast a blue glow over the fields. He sat and waited.

He woke in the morning on the porch-swing, shivering in the cold morning air. It was still dark. He went inside, checked on Coop sprawled in a mess of blankets, then went to his father’s room. The bed was undisturbed, the same as yesterday. He picked up the phone and tapped the cradle. Still nothing. He flicked the light switches and tried the radio and TV. Nothing. He went back to his room and grabbed a sweater. In the kitchen he left a note on the table for both Coop and his father: Power’s out. Gone to old man Shelby’s place. Back soon. Reed.
Outside, he scooped up his bike and sped off down the road toward the Shelby farm two miles away, the morning light flickering behind him, his breath puffing small white clouds.

The Shelby place looked empty. Reed went up on the porch and knocked on the door. Then he banged on it. He walked around the house and shouted. Anyone here? Mr. Shelby? Silence. A sour ache formed in his stomach. The fields carried a colder wind. He stood still on the porch for a while and listened, not a sound.

And then he heard it, a distant thumping. It was coming from the east, from town, towards the farm. He crossed the road and climbed on a tall fence. Shading his eyes, he could see the large mass of forest, just the other side of where their farm sat. The thunderstorms still flashed. He froze then and blinked. Trees were dropping. All along the horizon, the trees were dropping. He’d once seen on TV, a hotel being demolished, imploded from the inside, crumbling and dropping straight down out of the sky. He saw that now but couldn’t understand.
Coop.
Reed ran to the house. He grabbed up his bike and turned and there stood Mr. Shelby, crooked on the road looking at the spectacle on the horizon. At first Reed thought he had imagined him but then Shelby shifted and in an odd voice said; we gotta’ go.
What’s going on, Mr. Shelby? I gotta’ get Coop. He’s home.
Cooper’s gone.
What? Reed said, his face blank.
Gonna’ be here soon. No time. Come on.
Shelby headed across the road and into the ditch toward a sectioned field. He turned to Reed who stood frozen, watching the falling horizon.
You see that? Shelby shouted. It’ll be here in a minute. If you wanna’ live, you best come with me. Nothin’ we can do ‘bout the others. Sorry.

Reed watched the hazed green horizon approach. The thumping had grown louder, a buzz-sawing hum, the forest now gone and the farm… Coop… then Shelby was at his arm, tugging him hard and they ran. A hundred feet into the field, Shelby stopped. Next to a block stone pillar, a dark maw lay open in the ground, a heavy wooden door propped open above it. A dark passage led down into the earth. Go, Shelby croaked, now panicked, pushing Reed down the dirt stairs. The sound was on top of him then and Shelby gave a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes unbelieving as he slammed the heavy door down, bolting it. The passage swallowed them into darkness.

Slipping, a Faulty Memory

I’ve existed for over half a century. That is mind-boggling. It seems like a long time, over five hundred thousand hours of thinking; you’d think there would be a lot to remember. Not really. About half that time I slept away. Many of my memories are faded, skewed and some are flat out fiction. There are few points of pure clarity. That’s not helpful if you’re a writer.

My recent memory isn’t bad and by recent I mean maybe a month ago. Events from my early years are more obscure like old snapshots in a deteriorating photo album: here I am at two, in a stroller with my brother; here I am staring out a car window, a prairie landscape skimming by and here I am throwing rocks into a lake with faceless friends of yesterday. I have thousands of snapshots like that floating about in my subconscious. Was it real? Is it real? Maybe life is but a dream.

I’ve read that the cells of the brain have a limited shelf life. Our brains will shrink and wear out as we age. I believe it. There are things you try to forget and can’t. Other things you try to recall and it slips away. I have a vivid memory of an annoying girl from high school. I remember her name, see her eye-glassed and pimpled face and visualize the pink sweater and blue-gray wool skirt she wore ‘everyday’, according to my memory. But there’s only a faint glimpse of a girl I dated for a couple of months. I don’t remember her name. I’m embarrassed to say that I barely remember my own wedding. Worse, I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night and I don’t drink.
“You’re slipping,” the guy in the mirror says. It doesn’t help to hear that when you’re shaving.

I wonder if my brain is crumbling? I worry if I’m a candidate for Alzheimer’s. Looking at my family history, there’s no evidence of it. My mother had a pretty good memory. She would tell us about her childhood during the war, stories of the German occupation in Belgium. Her stories were riveting with such fine detail and clarity. She was eighty-two when she died in 2008. Cancer. It seems almost impossible up here in my questionable memory. It feels more recent than that. I find the pain and disbelief of her death beginning to subside but with that, there’s a gnawing thought that keeps nibbling the soft cheese. What if I start to forget her life? I already feel guilty that I don’t think about her or my father much. I can still clearly see them both in their respective caskets. I suppose my mind tells me to retain these images because they are important and I want to remember. I hope that doesn’t sound too morbid.
“You are slipping.” I guess, maybe I am.

My wife’s memory is terrific. She relates stories and events from our thirty years together and I nod and say, “Really!” or “Really?” depending on the importance. More often, it’s the second ‘really?’ that I entertain. She’ll tell me that it’s so-and-so’s birthday and I cringe. Some of these people are obscure, some of them my own relatives. As long as I don’t forget her birthday, our son’s or our wedding anniversary, I think I’m safe.

“No, you’re slipping.” OK, I am.
I don’t remember everything about our relationship that I should. Let me write that down to remind myself. Maybe I should stop writing altogether? If I’m not being honest then why bother. The thing is I am being honest, as far as I can remember. Forget what I said.

Man’s Got a Gift

Of all the residents spending time at the Parker Park nursing home, Mr. Perry was the oldest. He clocked in at 103. Can you believe that? Man that guy was healthy. He claimed his longevity was due to this philosophy: always keep your mind and legs moving simultaneously. Cute for the nursing staff but I knew better. I knew it had everything to do with that plain blue “music” box next to his bed.

It was an unassuming little cube; small and wrapped like a gift with a bow on top. It wasn’t that noticeable sitting there between a vase of flowers, water glass and medications. There was a wind-up key on its side but oddly, when you wound it, no music played. Not a sound. But there was a gleam in old Perry’s eye when he would look at it. It was a secretive childlike look, as if he had just pocketed money from some unsuspecting purse. I’d visit with him every so often and I’d see his wandering gaze settle on it. He thought I didn’t notice but I did.

When the “music” box went missing, well, that was the day old Perry’s health started to decline. He lay in bed, raving about his missing music box, refusing to eat and then refusing to speak. Very quickly, he began to look that 103. Man, the whole place went nuts trying to find that box. Funny thing was, they weren’t sure what to look for. “What is it?” from the nursing staff. “A music box?” from the orderlies. Everyone claimed they’d never ever seen such a thing. But soon, there were several suspects. There always are with things like this. By the end of the day, it had narrowed down to a short list. There was talk of a happily humming nurse walking off with it. Fingers were pointed at one orderly whose last name unfortunately happened to be ‘Fingers’. Man, it got crazy as every resident on the floor became a suspect, even Mr. Kern across the hall in Room 3 who suffered from throat cancer but for the past two months, slept quietly in a coma.

Of course, all who could deny ever taking it did but man, I won’t. I can admit it now; I took it. No, that’s not quite accurate. I borrowed it for a while. I’m always up and down these halls and I look in on every single one of these folks daily. I took the “music” box, wound it and put it under old Mr. Kern’s pillow across the hall there in Room 3. The next day, well, old Perry was up and around, crowing that he’d found his music box again, right where he’d left it, there between his vase of flowers, water glass and medications. He was his old self again. The stunned staff wasn’t paying much attention to him though as they were all gathered in Room 3 with Mr. Kern. He was sitting up rubbing his throat, saying, “Can you feel that? Can you hear that?” I’m no doctor but man, I surely can.