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The Lost Man

So where am I?  How did I get here?  Have I been running from something...or come back to it?  Returned to where I began?  Impossible to say; I can remember nothing.  Nothing at all, except for a heavyset woman...looking out her window?  But at whom?  Can’t remember.  That’s because  this never happened, was just a dream.  A dream is all.  I have been sleeping and dreaming about a town, somewhere in the forest, in another time.  I see clearly; and although it is only a dream I look at it, for what else is there to see?  Yes, a town, in distant time.  There has been a war but it is over now.  The dead have been left in Flanders, and the living sent home.  But just when they thought they were free, a plague hit and they also needed burying.  But that, too, ended and everything returned to normal.  A regular pattern, seasons revolving predictably.  Until this year.  At the end of January it got warm and began to rain; it seemed like the end of winter and some said it was the end, but everyone knew it couldn’t be so.  And they were right.  One night the drizzle stopped and the weather turned again, got mean.  Ice collected on the trees, breaking the brittle branches of the birch and bending the cedars like penitents.  A hard smooth crust  formed on the surface of the snow and, though it seemed solid enough to support a man, those who tried to walk on it found themselves suddenly sunk up to their thighs, the skin scraped off their shins.  And only when they were caught like this, startled by the clarity of their pain, were they able to see how the deer must be suffering, trapped and bleeding, easy prey for wolves.

Dreams.  Sometimes I wake up from one and begin to tell the woman beside me about it, only to discover that I am not really awake and that the telling is part of another dream.  I find these frightening and sometimes try to wake myself by speaking loudly to the one in the dream, hoping that my words will carry, that my sleeping self will be wakened by the sound of my own voice.  But I recognize  the impossibility of bridging these two worlds, and resign myself to the dream.

Sometimes when I wake inside a dream I remind myself that I am the dreamer, that I can make this world turn whichever way I want.  But it never does, no matter how hard I try.  And there are other times, like this, when  I wake in the night with a clear picture of what I’ve just dreamt.  I see it all, not in pieces that need to be assembled, not in sequences of action that must unfold, but in a sudden wholeness that I must look at before it vanishes.  I see how the winter does not fade but disappears; and witness how spring arrives with a sudden burst of heat.  Small fires break out around the town and the people begin to worry that they will be burned alive, like the saints.  The priest tells them that they must pray to God for deliverance.  So they do, and their prayers are answered.  At the end of June the weather turns cold and the summer is transformed into a season with no name, as wet as November.   

It is early when Joseph leaves the house, cursing the wetness of the bush he heads to.  Elizabeth takes out the sifter and flour, and on her way to the pantry to get the yeast she sees a man outside the house, trudging up Water street in an army greatcoat.   There is something about the way he walks that betrays a resignation.  She wonders about this as she kneads the dough.  Midmorning she stops for a cup of tea and brings it with her to the front porch.   She watches the man walk up Water street until he reaches the top where  he stops as if he’s trying to remember something, then he turns and heads back down, toward the house, past it, past Messines and Cambrai streets.   And when he reaches Vimy he stops and stares at the street sign.  After a long moment he shakes his head and begins the march up the hill again.   Elizabeth sees how the wind ruffles his hair and blows sand into his face, and she wonders why he does not turn up the collar of his coat to protect himself.

She feels she should do something but shakes this thought off, goes back to her bread, punches down the risen dough, kneads it and sets it to rise again.  But while she  is doing this she can see the man in her thoughts.  Why doesn’t he at least turn up his collar and tuck his face down into it?  Annoyed by his foolish disregard for practicality she abruptly wipes her floured hands on her apron and stomps to  the little pantry in the cool front verandah.  From it she takes a cured joint of pork, brings it to the kitchen, cuts thick slices from it and puts them on a plate.  Then, in the verandah, she sets up the card table,  covers it with her good linen and lays out a single place setting, using her Christmas silverware.  

Now she leaves the house. Coatless. She  looks up the road, then down, but can not see him. As she walks along the road the cold wind makes her shiver.   She wonders if he has vanished from existence and has taken with him all her foolish thoughts of trying to help.  As she walks back along the side of  Water Street she  sees him sitting in the ditch among wild lilies and tall dead grass.  A thousand things she might say to such a man but can not decide which one is correct.  So she says nothing; just stands mutely in front of him as he sits in the mud, his feet immersed in the cold grey water.  He looks up at her, not as if he were looking at a samaritan but as if he were looking at the one who would  put a bullet into him.  His pale blue eyes not asking for mercy; just waiting  resignedly for the sudden shock of death.

“Jesus” she mutters to herself as she realizes the shape he’s in.   

He does not answer her.  Just waits.

“Get to your feet,” she orders, knowing this is the tone the man will respond to.

He stands but makes no attempt to leave the safety of the muddy trench.

He looks at her blankly, not revealing the world in his head.  She suddenly feels the staggering impossibility of doing anything for him.  Or of even understanding the distant world he inhabits.  Perhaps it would be better to just leave him.

"Well we can’t stay out here all day," she tells him.  He blinks.   “Come with me now,” she says and turns back to the house.   Let it sort itself out.  If he does not follow then so be it.   As she heads toward the front door  she listens anxiously for his footsteps behind her.  And finally hears them soft and    careful.  What does he fear he might tread upon: the earth?

At the front steps he stops, waiting for orders, looks at her, his eyes the colour of faith.   Has he so lost  trust in his ability to navigate the world that he is willing to put his fate into even  her hands?  If she were to close the door on him would he accept this as another fact, and continue  his journey up and down the hill? 

 "Take your boots off when you come in.  I've just scrubbed." 

He sits on the front steps, removes his boots and leaves them outside the door.  Then he drops his muddied coat.  Beneath it he wears a green, woollen army sweater and trousers from someone’s discarded suit.  His socks have holes, and his exposed toes are red from the cold water they’ve been soaking in.

She sits him at the card table.  He looks down at the place setting.  Then picks up the knife and stares at it,  as if trying  to remember what it is.  As he holds it up it reflects a sliver of sunlight on his face.

When she returns from the kitchen with a cup of tea, he is still looking at the fine piece of silverware.  She places the hot liquid wordlessly before him.   He tries to lift  the china cup by its delicate handle but gives up because his hand trembles so violently.  He leans over, as if in prayer, grasps the cup with both hands and raises the dark steaming liquid to his lips.  He sips quietly and replaces the cup, careful not to spill a drop.

When she comes back with a plate he is sitting quietly with his hands in his lap, willing to accept whatever may come--food, bullet.   He stares dutifully ahead.  She places in front of the  man a plate with cold potatoes and turnips and thick slices of meat. On another plate, a stack of bread.  Next to the bread, a jar of her green tomato relish.  He reaches for the bread but the instant his flesh touches it he withdraws his hand, as if jolted by an electric current.  He returns his hands to his lap and looks at the food.  

She leaves the room, sits in the kitchen with a cup of tea and listens for the sounds of him eating, but she can hear nothing and wonders if he has left.   When she returns she sees an empty plate with the silverware arranged neatly on one side.  He does not thank her and sits with his eyes downcast.  She wants to ask him his name.  But does not. 

When she moves next to him to remove the good china and silverware he grabs her by the wrist.   She feels the softness of his fingers and thinks  how they might have brought comfort to some woman in the past.  He wets his cracked lips and tries to speak but no words come out.  His brows furrow in quick anger but even this is defeated and his face goes placid again.

Her cheeks go hot and she wants to tell him, Get mad.  Be something, but swallows this and tries to be gentle.

“Try,” she says.

"I don't know," he confesses.

"What is it you don't know?"

"Everything."

He still holds her wrist.

“Take your time.”

“I don't know...where I am.”

“You're here.  With me in my front porch.”

“With you?"

“Here.  With me.”

“Is this France?”

“No.  You're home.”

He looks at her as if he doesn't understand what the word means.

“Not France?”

“This isn't France.”

“Yes,” he says as if he understands everything clearly.  But a troubled thought sweeps  across his face,”Not France?”

With uncharacteristic patience she repeats, “No. This isn't France.”

“Not France, then.”

“No,”

“Somewhere else?”

“This is your country.”

“But I saw the name on the sign.”

“What name?”

“Vimy.  It said  Vimy.   So I went up the hill and couldn't find anyone.”

Then she understands.  “It isn't the same Vimy.  This is another.”

“Another Vimy?”

“Yes.  This is just a street.  Vimy Street.”

“A street,” he replies.  Worry fades from his face, is replaced by a temporary calm and his eyes begin to droop with fatigue.

“You're back,” she reassures.

“With you.”

“Yes,” she says to the strange man whose hand feels so natural upon her wrist.   His heavy eyes snap open as if he's just heard the report of artillery.  His fingers release her wrist, leaving on her skin the memory of his touch.   He stands up, walks stiffly and dutifully to the door.  He stops at the threshold, looks up the street, then down.  He stares hard at the horizon, cocks his head, listens for more artillery.  He turns to her, his eyes search. Doesn’t she know what he has to do?  She shifts her weight uncomfortably.  Then, as if this is the most natural thing in the world,  he reaches to her face and brushes back  a strand of her hair that has fallen across her forehead.

He sits now on the steps and pulls on his boots.  As she watches his fingers tying the laces she has a girlish need to reach into his life and make it all different. “The war is over,” she blurts.

He doesn't seem as if he's heard.

“You’re safe. The war is over.”

She sees him flinch.  He looks up at her from the step, “No. I don't think so.”  

He stands, the wind hits him full in the face but he does not turn away.  He looks up the hill, then the other way, at the sign that says, Vimy.   For a moment it seems like he’s about to say something but he doesn’t.  He bends over, picks up the greatcoat that all this time has been soaking in the unnatural July cold and begins his advance down the barren street, back to a war he knows can not be far away.

                                                                   

-end-

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