WAR IS OVER

It was our third winter without snow. The holidays had come and gone through the drudgery that now seemed synonymous with everyday life. The village was swarming with its usual ant-like movements; no one had thought to celebrate. We were all too busy trying to survive instead.

Knowing that no fireworks would tear the sky ablaze, Mother and I had let Old John play in the starkened yard on New Year’s. I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, as his yowl reached the dark side of the moon, she would not reflect it back at the young man in the trenches whom we knew it was meant for.

No. I knew the moon was nobody’s messenger and she pledged allegiance to no flag. Her pale crater eyes watched the soldiers, enemies and allies, presidents and kings, diplomats and dogs with the same ethereal indifference.

It was the first week in January that I, faultily mirroring that same indifference, glanced at the papers, crumpled up on the kitchen counter. Mother’s eyes reprimanded me halfway.

“Eloise, what did we agree on about reading the news? I can’t deal with you having a nervous breakdown every morning just because some man or other with a degree from who-knows-where predicted that they will win the war.”

I tried to shrug off my pessimism. She was right, of course, she always was. I knew that if one person could, through sheer virtue of worrying, bring about peace, I would have done so already each night, every night, since the war began.

“I’m going over to Marie’s to help her with the farm. Mr and Mrs Blair have left to go to town, and won’t be back until late noon today, and she needs my help,” I announced, with the fragile air of utmost unconcern, as though I had not heard what she had said.

The short way to Marie’s house had always been a pleasure to saunter through.

The air itself was poignant with happiness, despite the dreary weather. I was sure that, at the heart of each tree, whose blowing branches saluted me like a commander, I could find the ghosts of me and Gilbert waiting for Marie and Mathew on our way to school. Maybe if I tore the bark of the birches in just the right place, it would come off like a film, and I’d see our lopsided, grinning faces peering curiously back at me. My heart fluttered and then faltered.

Leaning on one of the great trunks for support, lest I faint, I felt a wagging mass of fur twirling over my skirt. I knew that open-mouthed pant even before I looked down.

Back when Old John was just John, he’d chase the sticks Gilbert threw him all the way to the farmhouse door. Now his magnificent black fur looked like someone had spilled flour all over him and his legs shook faintly in the cold, but he still walked the road with me. Perhaps, in his dear little dog heart, he still thought he could catch me if I fell.

The sound of footsteps snapped me out of my reverie. Marie’s bouncing, dark curls were impossible not to notice in a crowd, yet here in the woodlands, she blended in almost eerily. I remembered the time Gilbert had laughingly called her a woodland nymph.

Were this the Marie of three years ago, she would have practically ushered me through the front door and into the dining room, before offering me ten different types of dessert to go along with my tea. Even now, I could almost feel her phantom hands on my back pushing me through the entrance. What I received instead was a nod of acknowledgment.

“You came. I thought you would. I’ve made us some tea. Father says we can’t have cake anymore, since the sugar’s been rationed, I hope you’ll understand.”

“It’s quite alright, I didn’t come for tea. I heard that Mr and Mrs Blair are away, so I thought I’d drop in and help.”

“Thank you,” Marie’s mouth coiled up, faintly, before adding, almost on impulse, “Really, thank you. I didn’t know how I was going to get through today.”

It was my turn to nod. It had been a while since I had known what to say.

We walked the remaining few hundred metres together, her hand in mine. The silence hung over us like the canopy of leaves once did in summer. We were in sight of her yard when I finally spoke again.

“Why are Mr and Mrs Blair out, actually?”

Marie waved her free hand, as if shooing the thought away like a fly.

“Father said he read somewhere that they’re all gathering to renew peace talks and insisted on going to wait at Mr Barner’s shop to be the first to receive the news. Mr Barner receives all the telegrams, you know.”

“Really?!” I exclaimed, “That’s wonderful news then, it must be what today’s paper was all about!”

Sensing my excitement, Old John wagged his tail and spun an enthusiastic spin chasing the motion.

“That dog never learns,” Marie giggled, almost lightheartedly, pointedly ignoring my own renewed vigour while staring directly into my eyes.

“No, but-” I began. Marie’s own glossy eyes begged me not to finish that sentence. Although outwardly, her posture remained as rigid as expected of a young lady, that same composure was not carried into her voice when she finally spoke.

“Please, Eloise, don’t get all,” she waved her hand again between breathy pauses, “All like how you get. They’ve been ‘talking’ about peace for a year now. I don’t know what’s gotten into Father; and now you.”

“But Marie,” I pleaded, “Even you can’t deny that the war must be closer to ending than it was a year ago. Don’t you think that there’s even the slightest chance that these talks could go through?”

“No,” she insisted, too keenly, “And I think you and Father dreadfully foolish for putting your trust in those…. Those old quacks.”

“But surely three years is far too long for a war,” I protested, “Even those old quacks can see that, you must admit!”

“How many soldiers, husbands, sons and brothers will have to die before a boardroom of old men decide that enough is enough?”

The bitterness of her voice felt sharper than a bee sting. I remembered the first time I got stung by a bee. I had run to Mother and Father, sobbing. For a brief moment, I wanted to do that more than ever. Still, I knew I had no right to.

“I’m sorry, Marie.”

She nodded an acknowledgement, averting her eyes.

“Let’s just go.”

The farmhouse was just about as orderly as one might have expected. The path felt heavy with the dull mash of leaves and mud that I knew no one bothered to clean. I didn’t mention it, as I picked up my skirt and waddled along to the house, Old John still at my tail. So he continued until the door of the main building, where Marie bluntly slammed the door in front of his wet, black nose.

“Sorry, Mother and Father don’t allow animals in anymore. It takes Mother such an awful long time to clean after them nowadays, you know. I hope you understand.”

“Mrs Blair still cleans?” I asked, words blurted out before thought. My mind could not reconcile the fragile, flushed and coughing Mrs Blair with the action of scrubbing floors.

“Yes.” Marie answered, somewhat monotonously, before hurriedly adding, “She and Father want me to focus on my studies and Mother still insists she can handle it. It’s her way of grieving, I think.”

“I’m sure it’ll all pay off once you take the entrance exams.” I said, somewhat daftly and very desperate to steer clear of the insolence that Marie had so graciously just forgiven me for.

“I hope so. Mother’s heart is so set on having at least one of us graduate university. ”

I nodded.

“You’ll get in, you’re all such educated folk; I wish I could go too, I’ll be sad to have you go so far away, though” I added, honestly.

“I’ll miss you too. I don’t want to go and be all alone. Matthew and I were supposed to go together.” Her voice broke, and she turned her head away.

A veil of silence fell between us, one that I knew better than to lift. My eyes darted over the keys of the dusty piano, once black, now grayed. The grandfather clock posted up like a watchful guardian seemed to be the only source of noise. It took me a few ticks to notice that the room was too quiet. I gradually released a pent up breath.

“Very well, let’s get to work,” Marie declared, still avoiding my gaze, “The floor is quite dirty. I’ll clean it. You can help me, if you’d like.”

I knew my way around the house well enough to return with the broom and mop in less than a minute.

As we worked, we seemed to sweep away the heaviness of the air.

“I found the old ragdoll you gave me when we were ten in the attic last week.” Marie informed me, a pointed edge of interest in her words. I jumped slightly at the recollection.

“Really? I’d almost forgotten about that old thing. I’m surprised its head hasn’t come clean off its body with how horribly I stitched it.”

“How did you know? I really thought I’d make it into a grand reveal! Well, besides that, guess what I found.”

“I’d really rather not.” I shuddered, horrified at the many possibilities this entailed.

“Remember that writer’s club we founded when we were twelve?” she continued, wickedly.

The realisation hit me like a deer in front of a steam engine.

“You did not!” I exclaimed.

“Oh but I did. In fact, I’ll read you an excerpt right now.”

Marie positioned herself dramatically, making the room her stage as she pulled out a piece of crumpled paper.

“Hark now,” she began, making a sweeping gesture across the room, “The End - capital ‘E’, by the way - is nigh! The moon will turn red, the sky will fade to black just as the prophecy hath foretold! The clouds will churn out rain and thunder as lightning rips it at the seams!”

I recoiled, remembering how I had stayed up past my bedtime writing and almost scaring myself with it in the process.

“Please, Marie, you are too severe on me! I was but a child!” I protested.

Inwardly, I couldn’t help but now regard my twelve-year-old self’s imaginings as an unsettling mark of privilege. What a happy childhood I had lived, fearing the end of the world through magic and not through a bullet or a bomb. Thus occupied, I almost didn’t notice when Marie’s dramatic recitation ended.

“How touching.” I remarked, my breath still shuddering from the embarrassment this sudden recollection had inspired.

Marie’s voice too, was shaken from laughter. A sudden spark shot from my mind to my mouth.

“You read my stories, Marie, but I wasn’t the sole contributor of the club! I want to read yours as well!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Eloise, really,” she laughed, failing to hide her sudden fluster, “In fact, we really ought to get back to work, we’re wasting time like this.”

She waved a tattered collection of paper behind her back a moment too late. I dropped my broom to the side, running over the floor in an attempt to wrestle it out of her hands.

“You’re so unladylike, Eloise!” My friend protested, as she switched the crumpled up manuscripts from one hand to another, in an attempt to evade me.

It was just as I had finally gotten a stable hold on it that our tussle was sharply interrupted.

Old John was barking. He was barking so vigorously I was quite convinced that he had hurt himself. Scrapping my victory, Marie and I both rushed to the door to check on him. Yet the more I listened, the less it sounded like a yowl of pain and the more like an excited greeting. Another noise also echoed in the background, faintly at first, only to rattle through the house like an earthquake.

I ran through the door just in time to see Mr and Mrs Blair’s buggy careening into the property.

“They’re back!” Marie exclaimed, a sudden flush rising to her face, “But it’s only two. They said they’d be back by six if we were lucky!”

My own heart lurched inside my chest so sharply I thought I might faint. My head pounded. I knew that whatever news Mr and Mrs Blair had heard would be written on their faces, but when they stepped outside of the buggy, I averted my eyes. It felt like staring directly into the sun.

It was Marie’s gasp that finally lifted my gaze. Mrs Blair was crying. Mr Blair was frantically waving around a newspaper like a flag in the wind. Blood rushed to my head, my ears ringing. I could feel Old John’s presence spinning at my feet in the excitement of an animal. I felt a sudden aggression in my foot. I wanted to kick him. I was dizzy. What had happened? Had we lost? Was Gilbert dead?

I felt Marie’s sudden absence at my side. I heard her footsteps, running towards the buggy.

Then Mr Blair lifted her up as if she were but a child and hugged her. I stood there still shaking, yet rooted to the spot. Slowly, my eyes zoomed into focus. I could start to make out the big, bold letters of the newspaper headline.

‘WAR IS OVER! PEACE AT LAST!’

I felt as if a bucket of cold water had been flung onto my head.

The next thing I heard was Old John’s breathing in my ear. I was in my bed. It was not my bed, nor was it my room. It was Marie’s room. It took a few more seconds to register that there was a presence at the end of my bed. It was Marie. Her movement was steady and deliberate as she slowly turned to face me. Her overcalibrated tone reached me before her words did.

“Good, you’re awake now.” She smiled, a smile that stayed on her face longer than formality demanded.

“What happened?” I asked, daftly. She laughed.

“You fainted, silly. Just like all those heroines from our stories.”

“The war, I mean. Is it true? Did we really win?”

“Father says that it’s not good for you to get all excited right now,” Marie reprimanded, “But I suppose it won’t do you any good to keep it a secret. The war is over. We won.”

I felt a sudden sting rise to my eyes.

“I must go tell Mother.”

“You will do no such thing, young lady,” Marie pushed me back down onto the bed, “Father is going to inform her and you’ll be staying for dinner. I believe a celebration is in order, although you’d best rest for now.”

I conceded, physically, but my eyes still darted out the window first.

The sky seemed gray and heavy, yet there still seemed to be an uncanny movement in the air.

“I’ll be back soon, if you’ll excuse me,” Marie informed me, as she slipped out of the door, “I’ll have to borrow Mother’s umbrella. Father said it looks like it might snow.”

I nodded.

I watched Marie opening her umbrella from her bedroom window. My eyes did not trace her movement; I knew where she was going. The humble memorial of one Matthew Blair, now probably draped over with snow like lace, was a place I knew I had no right to follow her to, even in thought. Things wouldn’t be the same without him, I knew, even when Father and Gilbert did return. Yet as large snowflakes flew like winged doves, covering the ground in a blanket of pure white, I couldn’t help but still feel the dwindling embers of joy rise into the warmth of a hearthfire.