"Writ on Water" Part II:
The Prodigal
by Zephyr
"At the going
down of the sun we shall remember them."
He had enlisted on a drunken whim.
The idea had come to him in a pub where most of the men who looked
his age wore khaki. Where even the `ladies' who worked the evening
taunted him for his lack of uniform, though when he spoke and
they noticed his American accent, they were more forgiving. It
was New Year's Eve, 1915, and England had entered the second year
of the Great War. Quentin had been in England since that brilliant
summer of 1914. With the world at the brink of war, the bright
and promising season played out in a golden haze. It seemed as
if all knew the splendor couldn't last and were in a hurry to
savor life as they knew it.
Quentin was not one of the golden participants. He'd come to Oxford
to research rare, medieval treatises on witchcraft. It had been
eighteen years since he last left Collinwood. He'd spent most
of those years seeking a cure for the curse which afflicted him.
The werewolf curse which his daughter's descendants would same
day inherit. He caught a glimpse of himself in the pub mirror.
His face was frozen in time. Eighteen years of endless searching
and loneliness showed no impact. His wide, sky-blue eyes were
as fresh and as clear as those of the young scoundrel long ago.
His boyish features caught the attention of every woman in the
room.
His heart still ached for Amanda. To have left her waiting like
that....... He often thought of where she was now. He hoped her
heart was not still as broken as his was tonight. He had kept
an internal vow to himself to not love again. Not ever until and
if, he could end the curse and his immortality. His evening carousing
still helped to ease his restless soul, but he never allowed the
careless stream of female acquaintances to grow close.
As he drank heavily, his mind turned to the war. Deep in his own
personal quest, he had felt orphaned from the world and paid little
attention to its sudden upheaval. Tonight he noticed the brave,
worried faces. A new year was almost here, and who knew what it
held? His loneliness tonight felt overwhelming, and here with
a crowd united by a cause, he felt a sudden kinship. He thought
of the death and destruction of the Western Front. Could it be
possible for it to overwhelm even himself? Could all that modern
machinery of death end his immortality? He closed his eyes a moment
and felt a deep sense of calm. Could he be killed? Could he end
it all and know peace at last?
He drank on until after several pints more and a romp with a girl
in a shoddy flat, he found himself stumbling down cobbled streets
on a rainy New Year's day. A sign in a window boldly proclaimed:
"YOUR KING AND COUNTRY NEED YOU!" Quentin gave a soft
chuckle. I've got no King and I'm far from my country," he
mused. He thought again of the brave, worried faces in the pub.
He thought of his dream of death and endless sleep. "Why
not? Why not join the cause? I could do some good perhaps and
even get killed in the process, if I'm lucky."
Quentin's enlistment proceeded like an endless dream of unreal
quality. The basic training all soldiers endured was an anathema
to his defiant nature. He followed orders as best he could, but
held himself aloof with a bemused air while enduring the displeased
drill sergeants. Company parades and punishments filled his days
and nights with mind-numbing activities. He began to find solace
in his fellow soldiers. They had begun as strangers but all soon
felt the intense bonding that often happens among men in war time.
Frank Tolliver was a London slum boy of nineteen. Trevor Hastings,
a Cambridge man and a top cricketeer, had waited for a suitable
commission then enlisted in a sudden passion to know the common
man's experiences. Terry Quinn was an Irishman from Dublin, fleeing
his IRA entanglements. He'd enlisted in a British regiment as
the best way he knew to disappear. Quentin had grown especially
close to Colin Seagraves. Like himself, Colin was the family black
sheep. Though Colin was never specific about his fall from grace,
he shared his pain and guilt with Quentin, and they both felt
a rare bond of understanding. Whatever the scandal, it had sent
Colin down from Oxford without a degree and totally cut off from
family support. He'd spent the last few years in a semi-penniless
state of self-indulgence, until the war itself as it did with
Quentin, promised a sure release and direction. His lean, hawkish
face and great, dark eyes burned with a rekindled purpose.
That July found them in a front-line trench in a battle that would
forever wipe away a large number of the British Empire's finest
young men. Kitchener's Army, they were called. All volunteers.
All who for whatever reason they might have had besides King and
Country, had enlisted of their own accord. They now were brought
together in a common struggle for survival. The battle of the
Somme. July 2, 1916. 60,000 men dead, wounded or missing on the
first hot day.
Lieutenant Wilcox was shrilly blowing his whistle; the signal
for their platoon to rise. Up and over the entrenchment ladders
they ran, into a hailstorm of machine-gun and rifle fire. German
artillery, well-hidden during the British attempt to destroy it
before the battle, joined the fray and punctuated the landscape
with fiery blasts and great bellows of smoke. The noise was deafening.
Men could not hear and the officers soon shouted themselves hoarse
in the first few minutes.
Quentin ran alongside Colin. They kept their eyes focused on the
barbed-wire entanglements just ahead of the German lines. British
artillery had also targeted the wire, but the men were too aware
of how poorly that same artillery had missed its mark with the
German guns. And then they were in it.
Lt. Wilcox fell first. Shot through the throat, he brought his
hands up to the bloody wound, attempting to croak out another
command. He fell face first in the dusty soil and moved no more.
Sgt. Thompkins and Terry Quinn were blown up together in a blinding
flash from a German .88, their bodies reduced to a spray of bloody
flesh. The great wave of men faltered. A few ran at first. Then
others. Then came the mass retreat.
Quentin pulled Colin along with him. He no longer consciously
focused on wishing to die. Now he felt the need to live and help
these men, most who wanted only to live the way he had longed
to die. He suddenly loved them all with a surge of protectiveness.
He clutched Colin's greatcoat and smiled fiercely at the one he
loved the most....Colin... A hot intensity welled up inside him.
He would take care of them all. He yelled for Tolliver and Hastings
to follow them. He snatched at the wire and stood still among
the deadly fire, pushing and pulling the men through.
Tolliver broke out first but a few feet forward he fell, shot
in the back. Turning him over Quentin was in time to watch his
last few quivering breaths. They ran on. The regiment was dying.
Bodies decked the wire like grotesque decorations. The ground
was littered with rifle shells, empty canteens, and discarded
dressings. Quentin led Colin and Hastings to the dubious shelter
of a large shell hole. They laid close to its edge, spent and
shocked at the carnage. Across the entire front, the German artillery
continued its angry retort. Though in some areas the British charge
succeeded in gaining ground, in others the returning scrambled
lines of men were in sad contrast to the proud, large wave which
had set out.
Hastings began a whispered recital of the Lord's Prayer, "The
Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..." Quentin and
Colin turned toward each other. Neither had ever been faintly
religious. They both fell silent, then softly joined in, their
solemn voices lost in the cacophony of bullets and shellfire raging
about them. The artillery was creeping closer as the gunners set
their range. They looked at one another, each hugging the ground
as if they could command it to swallow them up and protect them.
Hastings suddenly sprang up with an incoherent shout. He ran from
the hole fully erect and was quickly shot through the head. He
fell heavily, reddish-grey matter dripping from a jagged hole
in his helmet.
Colin choked and turned to Quentin; his face chalk-white. His
dark eyes were round with shock and terror. "God...Quentin...this
is horrible! I don't want to die here! Not like this! We haven't
even a chance!"
Quentin grabbed Colin's shoulder and yelled to him. "Colin,
we'll make it, I promise you! We'll get through...God protects
mad dogs and Englishmen, remember?" Quentin forced a sickly
grin.
Colin clutched at Quentin's hands and smiled weakly. "I'm
sorry, old man", he gasped. " Isn't it funny, though?
I thought I wanted this. Thought I wouldn't mind a medal or even
the old dirt nap itself, if that happened. I don't want it now."
He turned his face away as hot tears ran down his begrimed cheeks.
Quentin squeezed Colin's hands with an encouraging grip. Colin
leaned forward until his wet eyes leveled with Quentin's. A strange,
powerful look spread over his face. "This is important, Quentin...don't
hate me for telling you this. Please...I love you...do you understand?
More than like a friend or even a brother...I love you..."
his words trailed off as he turned his face away.
Quentin felt an old, aching warmth rush over him. It happened
again, he thought in wonder. It happened again. I told myself
it wouldn't, but it has...with Colin. He struggled to gain mastery
of his conflicting thoughts. He'd never thought of men in that
way. He was the quintessential lady's man. But now, here in some
hellish French field, he was gripping Colin's hands and feeling
a wild, inner fire.
He took Colin's face between his hands and kissed him hard. The
kiss seemed savagely sweet, as if stolen from the face of death
itself. Colin clutched at Quentin tightly. He dropped his head
to Quentin's shoulder. His helmet tipped off and rolled to the
ground. Quentin gently smoothed Colin's sweat-matted hair back
from his face, then replaced the helmet and pulled him up to a
crouch next to him. " I love you too, Colin." he whispered
quietly.
Another crashing shell sprayed dirt over them and Quentin's voice
grew harsher as he yelled, "We've got to make a run for it!"
Colin shook his head. Quentin yelled again. "I'll help you.
Follow me!" Quentin rose and Colin reluctantly followed.
Together they clambered over the hole's edge and stumbled across
the broken terrain. The cries of wounded men filled their ears
as they struggled to regain the safety of their own trenches.
They passed a young stretcher-bearer lying wounded on the ground.
His shock of blond hair shone brightly in the summer sun. He clutched
at Colin's legs, frantically. "Help me, Mate!" he cried.
They looked down and saw the boy's left foot was blown off. The
two hastily bandaged the stump with their kits, all the while
ducking bullets and shellfire. They grabbed the boy between them
and took off again.
A loud, quick burst filled Quentin's head. His body felt limp.
His vision turned red. He felt his feet fly from under him and
he found himself crashing to the ground, stunned and helpless.
Something was on top of him. Something heavy and oppressive. It
frightened him and he cried out. He struggled a moment then stopped
as another barrage crashed around him. He fought to get the weight
off his back. Where was Colin? He tried to call for him but his
throat was dusty and choked, and he managed only a hoarse, tortured
whisper. He grabbed at the weight with all his strength and suddenly
found himself staring into Colin's smiling face. There was something
wrong. He shook Colin, but there was no response. Colin wasn't
smiling. It was more like a frozen grimace, thought Quentin. He
closed his eyes and then refocused them. He stared dumbly at an
oozing, star-shaped hole right above and between Colin's staring
black eyes. He climbed over Colin as if to protect him from the
shells. He pressed his ear tightly to Colin's bloody chest. Colin's
heart was still and his eyes open and unseeing. He was dead.
Choking back a sob, Quentin stumbled to his feet again. The wounded
stretcher-bearer was gone. He was alone. He stood and ran on through
the bombardment. Shrapnel and bullets pierced his body as he ran
wildly. The pain and impact of each wound knocked him down, but
he rose slowly again each time, staggering toward the trenches.
Even as he ran the wounds were healing. Only the pain stayed with
him. The horrible pain and the ceaseless noise. As he ran he heard
someone screaming. He wanted to scream back at the man to stop.
He wanted to die but he was immortal. Not like Colin, who was
already a broken, bloody remnant of the friend he had known.
He fell into the trenches and grabbed his head tightly, trying
to shut out the noise. He shut his eyes hard to cut off the sight
of Colin's frozen grimace. The man was still screaming somewhere.
Screaming so loudly, it hurt. Somebody stop him, he thought. I
can't take it anymore. His hands flew to his open mouth and he
realized he was the man. And he had to scream. It was all terribly
wrong. All the waste. It wasn't for King and Country but for all
the vanity and pride of each offending nation. All those men dead.
And Colin...He screamed again in torment and was screaming still
when they found him and gently carried him back.
Brycliffe Sanitarium stood on the shore of the river Severn, in
Shropshire. Its windows gazed down on farmlands stretching away
to the ranges of green Shropshire hills. Sheep grazed near the
riverbank, and throngs of blackbirds and sparrows filled the trees.
It was November 11, 1918. The Armistice had been signed that morning,
at 11:00am. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day, of the eleventh
month. Down the halls of Brycliffe the patients and staff gathered.
Even the shattered men that filled the back wards found themselves
rejoicing in a world at peace.
Quentin stood on the grounds and eyed the whitewashed sign, ruefully.
"Brycliffe Sanitarium for the Brain-Injured and Nervous Cases."
The British were so blunt, at times. Out of all the patients,
he'd been here the longest. He'd spent a hellish year in a British
Army hospital and had been discharged as incurable to Brycliffe.
When he'd enlisted he had given his particulars as "Grant
Davis, American Businessman, No next of kin." Only Colin
knew of his real name. The British Army had puzzled over exactly
what to do with him. No relatives or friends were there to offer
him care, and his symptoms were too pronounced to let him out
without arrangements. So they'd sent him to Brycliffe, and here
he had spent the last year. He had been given the Military Cross
as a token of gratitude. The medal sat in a closed case at the
bottom of a drawer. He stood now on the grounds of Brycliffe,
suddenly wishing he were home.
It would be most likely raining at Collinwood now, Quentin thought.
November was rainy often until the cold deepened and the snows
came. The fireplace would be blazing and the great clock in the
foyer would somberly and reassuringly count the hours. In his
boyhood he had known peace there, and now he longed for it again.
What would they all be doing? Edward most likely busily engaged
in the family's shipping operations. Judith still running the
household. Nora, all grown up, might even be married now. And
Jamison? He'd be a man of thirty-one now. A sense of dread came
over him. Had Jamison entered the war when America did? Had he
been killed? Worse, was his mind or body ravaged by horrible wounds?
He missed them all tonight. He thought of his daughter, Lenore.
At least she was safe from the war. What was she doing now?
If he went home he could know their fate. If he went home he could
rest a little while. He knew he couldn't stay. Already his lack
of aging would be noticeable. As the years passed by they would
become suspicious. He closed his eyes and wept softly to himself.
He'd lost these last years to the war. His quest still stretched
ahead of him. But his heart and mind...they were broken by visions
that left his nights sleepless and his days in haunting thought.
Sounds would fill his ears at any time, sounds that pierced him
deeply and left him kneeling and retching on the floor. Sights
would flood back into his memory at the slightest reminder of
those obscene images engraved on his mind. Images that left him
hoarse from screaming. A lilac would bring back Colin's face at
a flower stand in a French village. A twisted grimace would erase
Colin's smile and Quentin's tears would fall again. A lorry's
popping backfire would have him curling into a tight ball, fighting
off the image of men's bodies blown to bloody fragments.
Shell-shocked, the doctors told him. He found it ironic. His body
was unscathed by all his experiences. But the sounds and sights
of the Somme had reached inside of him and ripped away his essence.
He felt fragmented. He shunned companionship even as the staff
and other patients tried to reach out to him. At times, when he
felt stronger, he would read in the library or walk the grounds
alone. In his most tormented moments, he would lie curled on the
bed with his body wracked by sobs, unable to fight off the flashbacks
which engulfed him.
Now he wanted to go home. Just for a little while. Just to see
Collinwood again. Just to see the solid, confident walls and great
gables rising up beyond Widow's Hill. Just to know that Jamison
and Lenore were safe and all was well with the last people on
earth with whom he felt even a tenuous connection. He could heal
there, he thought. He could gain strength from his home. The strength
he needed to some day resume his quest.
He left Brycliffe against medical advice, his discharge pension
in a wallet thrust deep inside his shabby trenchcoat. He threw
away his old uniform. One of the orderlies gave him an aged sweater
and a pair of pants ragged at the hems. He made his way home on
a steamer, and found himself at last before the high, polished
doors of Collinwood.
Quentin sat in the parlor before an astonished Edward and Judith.
He had been gone so long without word, they supposed him dead.
He said nothing to explain his shabby appearance. His drooped
shoulders and thin, haunted face softened their scorn at his condition.
Both assumed a twenty year debauchery of some sort, and only marveled
that he still looked so young for forty-eight. He asked quietly
of Jamison and Nora. He smiled wanly when told Jamison had served
with honor and would soon be coming home. Nora's soldier husband
was also safe and already in New York. She had traveled there
to meet him.
Edward left to go to bed, leaving Quentin and Judith alone. Judith
had been reading while Quentin sat in a chair by the fire. She
looked up and saw he was sleeping. His head had fallen to his
shoulder and his lips were parted in soft, steady breathing. He
looked thoroughly dissolute, she thought, shaking her head. She'd
hoped on his return that perhaps he had matured, but his ragged
appearance gave her grave doubts. The "Return of the Prodigal",
she thought, as she rose to wake him.
As she gently shook his shoulder, he woke with a start to the
sudden crack of lightning. The storm which had menaced all day
broke loose in frenzy. He froze instantly. Another peal sent him
sliding to the floor. He curled up with his arms clutched tightly
about his knees. The thunder rolled through him, and the crack
reverberated in his ears.
"Quentin, what is it?" Judith cried. He couldn't hear
her. The flash and rumbling of the storm engulfed his body in
a paroxysm of fear. He began sobbing uncontrollably. He felt a
frighteningly familiar, oppressive weight across his shoulders.
He shook harder and cried out in terror. Smells of cordite and
men's blood filled his nostrils. He jerked against a table and
sent a whiskey glass flying. The flying shards ricocheted about
the room as he groaned loudly.
"Quentin!" Judith shouted again. She stood mesmerized
by his behavior. What had come over him? Was he mad? She called
for the servants who quickly fetched Edward. They all stood back
from him, as if afraid to touch him and rouse further whatever
nightmare engulfed his mind. He stood and staggered from the parlor.
Tears blinded his eyes. He tried to climb the stairs to his old
room but his trembling body betrayed him and he fell in a heap
to the landing. Judith ran to him then, and through the noise
and terror in his mind he could hear her yelling at him to lie
still. He looked up at her with wide, anguished eyes. "Help
me", he cried softly. "Please help me..."
Dr. Graves entered the sitting room outside of Quentin's bedchamber.
Judith and Edward stood waiting. "Well, I can't really tell
what's happened to him, Miss Collins. Physically he's as healthy
as a horse, if a little thin. It's amazing, really. I delivered
him as a baby forty-eight years ago and he looks like a boy in
his twenties."
"Well then, doctor. Do you think he's insane?", Judith
asked bluntly.
"Frankly, Miss Collins, I'm not quite sure. Obviously he's
not quite right, if that's what you mean." The old doctor
stood a moment as if pondering something. "Tell me something,
is it possible he served in the war?"
Edward gave a derisive chuckle. "Come now, Graves. You know
my brother. I haven't the foggiest idea of what he's been up to
for these last eighteen years but he was never one to place his
own life in danger. Why do you ask that?"
Graves looked at Edward and shook his head. "Well, I know
its a little far-fetched, but he has all the symptoms of shell-shock."
Turning toward Judith he asked, "Didn't you say he was asleep
and seemed frightened by the storm when awakened? That sort of
`startle' behavior, I've heard, is common with soldiers who experienced
heavy shelling."
Judith frowned as she wondered what could possibly be wrong with
Quentin. It seemed whenever he returned, he brought trouble. Her
anger softened to pity as she again saw him on the landing, crying
and softly pleading for her help. The circle had come around again.
He had seen her once when she was vulnerable. Now in turn she
had seen him in his own weakness.
Graves smiled encouragingly at Edward and Judith. "If it
isn't shell-shock, it's remarkably like it, and the treatment
would be the same. He needs rest and quiet. He'll probably be
withdrawn. When those flashbacks hit, there is little to be done
but wait them out. Sometimes sedatives will help. I'll leave you
some. You'll want to consider having a trained nurse about. Ideally
one used to these cases. I'll make the arrangements, if you like."
Judith nodded her assent and went wearily to bed. The next day
brought Rowan Lyle to Collinwood. She was from the village but
had left Collinsport behind for the relative sophistication of
Bangor, and a post as a teacher at an exclusive girl's school.
A minor fascination for medicine led to a full time war occupation
as a volunteer nurse. The war's end found her working with the
bent and broken casualties of a Flanders hospital. Returning home
to Collinsport brought relief to Rowan. Taking the case at t Collinwood
allowed her to provide an additional income for her aging parents,
who were grieving her brother's loss at Belleau Wood. Relief also
at having one as opposed to so many needy patients at once.
Rowan was blessed with self-discipline and a seeking nature. At
thirty-four, she yet had known a real romance. There had been
pawing, silly boys in the village, and later grateful, gallant
veterans, but to none of them did she lose her heart. She lived
instead with an inner intensity that caused her to experience
life somewhat differently than others. As if there were an abundance
of spirit deep down inside that remained untouched and unchallenged.
She was efficient, athletic, and very bright. She read poetry
and painted in watercolors, and could some days be seen swimming
strong, even strokes down off the beach at Widow's Hill. She had
bobbed her dark, shining hair long before the crest of popularity
rose for such a style. She wore little make-up and needed none.
Her rich hazel eyes were shaded by robust lashes and her brisk,
well-scrubbed complexion shone with a dazzling vitality.
Judith at first felt alarm when meeting her. This would never
do. As sick as Quentin appeared to be, this robust woman might
not be the best nurse for him. She had envisioned a middle-aged,
less attractive woman. She was pleased though, with Rowan's recommendations
and her lengthy experience with cases similar to Quentin's. She
was also pleased by the sense of aloofness she picked up from
the woman.
Quentin took little notice of Rowan. Her occupation became that
of subtly checking on him. She watched his food intake and hovered
nearby when his memories overwhelmed him. Then she could be found
leading him to bed, speaking softly and soothing, until the flashbacks
and administered sedatives left him in an exhausted daze.
It was she who opened his battered valise one day, in a curious
attempt to solve the puzzle of his affliction. The contents were
sparse but illuminating. A folded certificate from the British
Army stamped "Discharged Honourably as Incurable." A
battered soldier's identity book identifying one "Private
Grant Davis, 3rd Battalion, King's Royal Rifle Corps." A
small case which held the Military Cross decoration. Another certificate
noting the award for "meritorious valor" given to Pvt.
Davis. A small, dog-eared photograph was also inside. It showed
a young man in uniform with deep-set dark eyes. A scrawled signature
across the bottom was signed, "Always your friend..Love,
Colin."
She'd taken her find to Judith, who fingered the bright ribbon
of his Military Cross. "For meritorious valor" the certificate
read. It all seemed so unreal. What on earth had he been doing
in the British Army? What had he seen which had so unhinged him?
And to think that he had earned a medal of valor... She approached
him one day when he seemed stronger. He sat resting on the summer
verandah, dressed in white flannels which accentuated his paleness.
He haltingly told her something of the story, leaving out Colin
and hinting only at the horrific sights and sounds he'd endured.
Judith told him of Lenore's visit. He shut his eyes in pain. He
wanted to go to her, but did not want her to see him like this,
or to interrupt the life she had fashioned growing up without
him. No, better to let her think him dead or long gone, he thought.
Better to leave well enough alone.
That spring the world still clung tightly to sorrow despite the
war's end. An influenza pandemic continued its deadly sweep across
each continent. Edward caught it from one of the servants and
died from pneumonia. A saddened Jamison returned for his father's
funeral. He hugged Quentin tightly at the graveside, recognizing
in his uncle's haunted face a comradeship born in the trenches.
Spring turned to summer, and the world lost its sorrow as the
sounds of jazz awakened a revitalized generation. The Lost Generation,
they were called. Those who lived through the war were filled
with a determination to take back with a vengeance, what they
had left behind. Jamison felt the restlessness and quit the family
firm. He roamed through Europe and settled in Paris, among the
American expatriates whose talents would produce the likes of
Stein and Hemingway. There he met a student at the Sorbonne who
would one day return with him to Collinwood as his wife.
There had not been a summer like this since 1914. Not since then,
had the world seemed so golden and vital. Quentin began to open
up to Rowan. He found comfort in her almost animal vitality, and
solace when in his weak tormented moments, she was there like
an anchor of serenity. She also felt closer to him. But she felt
something else as well.... a dawning sense of his maleness.
No longer was he only her tortured patient. He had been hurt deeply,
but he was a man nonetheless and when she watched him sometimes,
her heart quickened at his pensive looks. He was better, she thought.
Well enough now to be thinking of life and not death. She came
to him first in a quick, summer rainfall. He took her there in
the garden gazebo, with her damp, dark hair curling behind her
ears and her lips pressed hungrily to his.
Quentin's nightmares receded to dreams as he grew stronger inside.
He told Rowan of Colin and even as his words spoke of their anguished
love, he saw her smiling acceptance and felt his heart heal a
little. In turn he had awakened a hunger in her. A need which
had gone so long without notice in Rowan. Her strength fed his
and in return his haunting passion illuminated hers. But their
many nights pressed together, only served to remind him theirs
could not be a permanent love. The Collinsport Gazette had noted
the marriage of Lenore Fillmore to a young fishing boat skipper,
recently home from the Navy. There would be children soon, he
thought. His grandchildren. The quest to end the curse must begin
again, soon.
Between Judith and himself there developed a new understanding.
They were gentler with each other. He would find himself purposefully
seeking her some evenings. They often read in the other's company.
Some nights they would talk, and their conversation would linger
softly over past memories at Collinwood.
When he thought of Colin, it was less painful. He understood now,
the scandal which must have led to Colin being cut off from his
rigid family. He felt anger when he thought of noble, enduring
Colin who had striven so for a purpose in life, being rejected
by his family for being homosexual. It must have happened at Oxford,
he reflected. That's why he was sent down. He wondered now what
happened to the boy whom Colin must have loved to have risked
all for. Was that boy also lying dead in France now? He thought
of his own love for Colin and a bittersweet warmth swept over
him. He had loved many women and now one man. They were all gone
now. Once again he faced the world alone. It would be tempting
to stay with Rowan but he would not remain to torment her in later
years, while she aged without his company.
He left that Fall with a last, lingering kiss from Rowan. Her
hazel eyes were soft and sad, but she smiled as his old charm
returned. He rakishly swept his cap from his head and leaned to
kiss her once more with a flourish. With a spry leap he boarded
the train and watched as Rowan's graceful figure diminished in
the crowd. He continued to watch as Collinsport itself faded in
the distance, and far away the crest of Widow's Hill grew smaller.
He sat in his seat and carefully removed the photo of Colin. Smiling
sadly down at the familiar large, dark eyes which looked up at
him, he gently whispered Colin's name. His thoughts turned to
other loves of his also lying dead. Jenny... Beth..... both sleeping
now at Collinwood. His mind turned to the lines written by A.
E. Housman...
With rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.
By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid:
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.
There were all sleeping, tonight. Some day, when Lenore and her
children were safe, he would join them all in peace.
That night as he slept once again while miles from home, Lenore
sat softly crying. Her tears quieted and a small smile crossed
her face. In her hands she held a note which read simply, "I
came home to see you safe. I left again to keep you so. Always
know I love you. Your father."
Finis
Note: Writ on Water
III Darkened Lands is coming soon...
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