‘Morning,’ Francis beamed as he strolled into the kitchen. Emile studied his wide grin. He circled the table and kissed everyone each on the head before taking a seat and scooping at the heap of beans piled upon his plate. If Emile already suspected something was wrong, it was now confirmed. Her Father rarely beamed. Not two days ago he had boasted a gruff beard, a somewhat dejected disposition. Something had changed.
His smile looked strangely unfamiliar as though it lacked practice.
She decided to test him.
‘Father, where is Uncle Pierre?’ His smile faded for a few seconds.
‘Uncle Pierre isn’t up yet,’ he replied, ‘one of the cows escaped from the field and he was up most of the night looking for it.’ Emile raised her eyebrows, unconvinced.
After she had cleared her plate Emile went to her bedroom. Rain poured against the roof and cascaded down the windows in winding, glittering streaks. She reached for the shelf of books lining the window sill and picked one out by its worn, burgundy bind. It opened up and two stray pages sat beneath the cover. She dug into her covers and made a fort out of the pillows.
THE PLAN
Rupert
Montjoy’s advice hadn’t been wasted on her. Over the past few days, Emile had accumulated an abundance of information that had been messily mapped out on two sheets of paper. A sketch of the mysterious propeller sat in the top corner, a short description below. Fragments of conversation spilled onto the page in untidy patterns, words taken from the hushed late evening chats between her Father and Uncle Pierre. She took a pencil and began to engrave the page in another string of greyish lead. The shadows, the latest development, the midnight departure of her Father’s secret guest. What was going on, she thought as she scanned over the pages. Her mind found itself in a maze, struggling to find its way to the answers.
There was a rap at the window. Emile jumped and muttered the only curse word she knew before wrestling away from the entanglement of her bed covers. A hand reached out and rapped against the glass once more causing the gathering of rain drops to shudder to a start and begin their journey down to the sill. She knew it could only be one person. Benjamin. He appeared from the corner of the pane and pressed his nose against the breath stained glass.
‘Emile,’ he whispered, almost as if he couldn’t see her.
‘Not now,’ she hissed. She wasn’t going to let him distract her again.
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘I guess you don’t...’ He lowered his voice on purpose so that she couldn’t hear the closing words.
‘Guess I don’t what?’ she grimaced, desperate to get back to her planning.
‘I guess you don’t want to know where I got this.’ He raised a hand and inside the pinch of his thumb and first finger was a copper cylinder, its core completely hollow.
‘What is that?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Pssht, you could have picked that up from anywhere.’
‘True,’ Benjamin conceded, ‘suppose I was the only one who heard that racket a few nights ago.’
Emile stared into his eyes.
‘You heard it as well?’ she asked.
‘Of course I did. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole of France heard it.’
‘What do you think it was and why aren’t the adults doing anything about it?’ she questioned, basking in the enjoyment of finally having someone to confer ideas with.
‘They can’t,’ Benjamin responded, ‘It’s the German’s. Ever since they came here there’s been trouble.’
A rumble of thunder echoed throughout the gloomy sky.
‘Are you going to show me that?’ Benjamin continued, pointing down at the sheet of paper.
‘No,’ she said, ‘but I suppose you could tag along.’
‘Tag along?’
‘Yes,’ Emile said, ‘I’m going to find out what’s going on around here and you’re going to help me. Now help me open this.’ Emile tucked the plan into her pocket and shuffled onto the ledge, placing one hand beneath the frame and the other against the sill for leverage. Benjamin assisted, nudging the wood with his palms until the gap was wide enough for her to slip through.
‘Where are we going?’ he questioned as Emile fell beside him. She wouldn’t tell him about the shadows in the barn yet, that was her own adventure. But she
would need help investigating the woods. Besides the barn was right next to the house, she could check it anytime. Benjamin stood before her, his hair drenched and his eyes wide with expectation.
‘Come on,’ she whispered through the heavy showers, ‘show me where you found it.’
A field lay before them, covered in a thick blanket of silver mist. The wet grass wilted under their cautious steps. The field wasn’t unfamiliar. She had been here before. A road lay somewhere in the distance, behind a rickety, poorly constructed fence. She looked down, observing every blade of glistening pasture. She wanted to ask where he had found the bullet capsule but then again she wanted to find one all by herself and plodded onwards, kicking at the tall stems of grass as she went. A stray twig snapped under her step and it captured her attention for a few moments before she carried on. A gate sat within the mist, it looked unhinged. The morning sun had been quashed and the light was bleak and seemed artificial.
‘There, Benjamin said finally, ‘that’s where I found it.’ His point stretched toward a patch of grass and for a brief moment it appeared different from the blades that surrounded it. Emile stooped down and ran her fingers through the cords of subtle green.
‘There weren’t any others?’
‘No,’ replied Benjamin, scanning the ground.
His eyes narrowed.
‘Look,’ he said, directing Emile with his wide eyed stare. She frowned and pushed her knee away from the morning dew. Amongst the waves of ivy green sat a solitary cluster of crimson red. Benjamin pinched at the blade and a trickle of scarlet ran across his fingers and tumbled towards his creased palm.
‘Blood?’
Emile shivered.
‘Yes.’
‘Look!’ Emile exclaimed. An orb of yellow light had materialized in the distance. They both bowed down, pressing against the damp ground as the swishing sphere continued towards the gate and then came to a sharp halt.
‘What is it?’ whispered Benjamin, he could taste fear on his tongue.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Emile, ‘a truck?’ The two of them strained through the foggy mantle, desperately trying to distinguish their visitors. There was a thud, then another. Like doors had been opened and closed. Then voices, German voices. Benjamin began to slide backwards,
‘Come on,’ he spoke softly, afraid that the slightest noise would be heard, ‘let’s go.’ Emile longed to stay. She wanted to know what had happened here but she knew she couldn’t. A chorus of barks followed.
‘Emile,’ he hissed. Slowly she started to backtrack, her thumping heart squashed against the grass. An echo of snarls and growls jeered behind the curtain of greyish smog. They were close. Emile looked behind her, past the terrified face of Benjamin and towards the misty tree line. The rain was ferocious. She heard Benjamin scramble to his feet and duck into the hazy overgrowth. She took one last look at the grey silhouettes emerging through the mixture of rain and steam before doing the same. Her hands grappled against branches, her hair fell at her eyes. A repetition of howls sounded in the coldness. Benjamin was fast and he had to slow for her to keep up.
‘Come on!’ he yelled. She was scared, icy tears ran down her cheeks. They passed the last row of towering trees and Emile’s bedroom window came into view. Benjamin slowed his hasty run into a walk and turned to her.
‘That was close,’ he huffed, ‘Are you okay?’ he trembled, touching at her cold wrist. Goosebumps bubbled up her arms. She nodded, staring into his eyes. Her heart flustered, through fear or a refutable attraction she didn’t know.
‘I’d better get back.’ Benjamin let go of her hand and trudged away, unaware that it would be the last time he would ever see her.
Francis washed his hands in the downpour and dried them thoroughly with an old rag. He had spent most of the morning fixing up the rafters in the loft and now his fingers ached with a numbness he was struggling to shake off. He padded back into the barn and looked over the empty space where his motorcycle used to sit. A heap of sheets lay by the ladder that led up to the rafters. He had meant to wash them and hang them where the sun hit the hillock just beyond the cottage but the rain had started to leak through the roof and his attention had been temporarily diverted. Pierre came through the doorway of cascading rainfall, a sack swaying over his shoulder.
‘That’s the last of it,’ he huffed, throwing the bag down beside the jagged octagon shaped cover in the corner.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Give or take a few shards of debris, buried in the shrubs no doubt.’
Francis huffed, unconvinced but somewhat too tired to argue further.
‘We’ll get this moved on come nightfall,’ he continued, gesturing towards the gathering of hooded ornaments. He looked back towards the empty doorway. His hand ran against the sheet.
‘How’s it looking?’
Pierre halted.
‘See for yourself.’ A grin formed and he persisted with a burning stare that urged his brother on. Francis refused to be swayed and let his hand drift away from the cover.
‘What’s all this,’ Pierre asked as he began to root around inside a heap of boxes that were lodged within the meeting of the two corner walls.
‘Memories,’ Francis said, snubbing a look, ‘more scrap I need to take into the lofts.’
Pierre gently flipped the lid. His eyes fell across a few old photographs. He noticed a bullet lodged against one of the picture frames. A frown set across his face but he proceeded towards the ladder and began to climb up to the loft when Francis called out after him,
‘Wait with that,’ he said marching over and tossing a hammer and a bundle of nails into the box,
‘Still a few leaks up there.’ Pierre snarled and disappeared into the loft. To Francis, the barn seemed empty, oddly vacant. With the motorcycle gone and his old photographs boxed away he felt as though that part of his life was a mere dream or a passing apparition. He swiped away a globule of travelling rain from his hairline and fumbled a cigarette away from his pocket, placing it gently upon his bottom lip before realising a match box was nowhere to be seen. A curse left his mouth and disgruntled the fag enough for him to have to remove it and hold it in his pinched clasp as he ducked into the falling downpour. His vision became blinded by rainfall. He hastened his pace, the rain leaked through his laces.
‘Mr Dubois?’
Francis stopped and looked up, the imprint of his sweeping laces still flashing at the back of his eyes.
‘Mr Francis Dubois?’
‘Yes?’ he replied, still trying to adjust to the blustery figure that now stood before him with an outstretched hand. A truck sat in the distance, its purring engine silenced by the rain.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Apologies,’ said the drenched visitor, ‘I am Colonel Hermann of the SS, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions. I shan’t imagine it will take long.’
Francis couldn’t help but offer a nervous smile.
Emile shivered under her bed covers. Her skin was still riddled with rain and her legs itched from every nip and scratch she had undergone during her rushed journey through the woods. The fear had disappeared slightly. This morning she had awoken a fearless explorer. By this afternoon she realised why heroes wore weighty suits of armour and why adventurers like Rupert
Montjoy embraced gigantic weapons for a reason. Adventures were dangerous. And nothing ever goes to a plan. The thought provoked another.
The plan
, she whispered digging into her dress pocket so that she could check on her progress. She removed her clawing fingers and checked the other pocket. Not a button inside.
‘What can I do for you Colonel?’
‘You can start by directing me to a much drier place,’ joked the Colonel, his pale face sniggering under his hat. Francis glanced towards the cottage and pictured the barn behind him.
‘This will do fine,’ said Colonel Herman who began to head up the path without invitation. Francis saw three men manning the truck, two more sitting in the front cabin. He followed the Colonel.
‘Again sorry to trouble you like this Mr Dubois but last night an incident occurred not so far from here.’ His movement could be traced by a spatter of falling droplets.
‘Incident, Colonel?’
‘Yes.’ His explanation ended there and he began to plod noisily around the barn, his left thumb tucked firmly over the edge of his belt.
Emile rummaged through the pockets once again.
Where is it?
She panicked,
Where has it gone?
She scampered to the window and looked out into the stripy blankets of rain. It must have fallen from her pocket when she was dashing through the woods. She pulled at the frame but it wouldn’t budge. Using all of her might she palmed at the wood but nothing, the structure didn’t even shudder. She skipped to the door and crept into the hallway. She had to find it. A clatter of dishes jingled from the direction of the kitchen. Emile pushed against the wall and edged forward until she could see her mother who was sitting at the table stirring at a mixing bowl. Just as Emile was about to retreat she witnessed her mother get to her feet suddenly and look towards the living room window. They were here.