This is a dreadful place to die, thought Robert Tarlton, of the dilapidated barn serving as a medical shelter. Its creaking walls reeked with the damp smell of horse and pig. But at least it was a haven far from the agonies of a battlefield.Several tall, old oak trees surrounded the barn. A rain-swollen creek nearby twisted its way through the woodlands and out onto a grassy meadow beyond. Union-blue clad wounded and sick soldiers crowded inside the makeshift hospital; weary, dirty and unshaven, brought to have broken limbs set and bandaged, or wounds probed and dressed, or lose a limb to amputation, or fight the debilitating fevers of disease. Some to die. He felt for those strewn on the makeshift beds: rough blankets thrown over pine boughs spread out on the hardened dirt floor. A lucky few got real cots. A handful propped themselves with coarse crutches against an empty patch of a battered wall, too feeble or having lost a leg, unable to stand alone. Despair shrouded the faces of most. "You're the first surgeon they've seen," remarked one of the orderlies. "Yes, I'm aware of that." Robert sympathized and imagined how, on the battle front, they got their injuries. It shocked him that so many still wore the blood soaked dressings received from a few days before. Some remained silent, others divulged in graphic accounts of battle. Moans of misery escaped from a few. At 23, his first horrors of war medicine pierced his spine with clammy chills. He never imagined his practice would lead to such a dismal turn. Outside, heavy rain pounded and streaks of lightening slashed the dark, clouded sky casting a foreboding gloom over the wounded and sick. Sharp thunder crashed in the distance. Startled, screams of pain and terror came from a far corner of the barn. He cringed. "Oh, Lordy, Lordy," shrieked a young boy. "God the almighty, have mercy on me." Tears trickled down his cheeks. He looked no more than 13 and frightened. His body lay prostrate on a table, better known, among the soldiers, as the butchers block. Robert stepped over and examined him. Empathy etched into his face as he gazed upon the wretched youth, bleeding and mutilated from the firing of a Confederate cannon. It was the left leg. The hideous black of putrid gangrene already settled, below the knee. He shuddered and knew what he had to do. "It'll be quick," he assured the boy. Robert called out to two medical attendants, but not before checking his breast pocket for some sheets of poetry he placed there earlier that morning, to read after his rounds. The beauty of prose always a comfort to him. At the sight of the aides, the boy began thrashing his arms and good leg. "No, oh Lordy, not me," he screamed. The two men wrestled with him and held him down. The merciful ether had long gone. Someone placed a stick in the boy's mouth. He bit hard, clenched his fists and stared at Robert with tortured, wild eyes. Heart pounding, Robert, gripped a sharp, heavy knife, like a vise and stood over him. As he focused his attention on the leg, an inexplicable sensation of fleeing overcame him, from what he could not imagine. Although he was inside the hospital shelter, crowded with the blue-clad injured and sick, he heard faint, haunting screams and shouts of men and women outside. The barn and its environs began fading from view. The raging storm withered away. Angry billows of dust rose from frantic running. Distraught cries of children searching for mothers reverberated in the background. An apparition of a shrieking woman flashed by, an arrow stuck out from her shoulder, blood gushing out. By her side, the silhouette of a little girl ran, her large dark eyes wracked by fright. He sensed the hissing of an arrow crack the wind and smelled smoke of musket gunpowder. Warm summer oak limbs brushed his face as he too, felt his body flee, as if escaping from a grave and ominous predicament. "Too bad," he heard one of the aides say, jolting him from the peculiar reverie. "One so young to lose a leg." "Yes, indeed it is," remarked Robert, jerking his attention to the situation at hand, perspiration moistened his face and back. Taking a deep breath, he wiped the knife on his bloodstained apron, raised it, then with great force and precision, hacked at the mutilated leg, just above the knee. A dull thud sounded. The severed leg dropped into a tub below. The boy fainted. A stream of blood ran off the table. The ordeal was over, a success. Robert took another deep breath and exhaled in relief. Outside, streaks of lightning and thunder slashed the wind driven rain. "It's done, sir," stated one of the aides, as he bandaged the bleeding stub. "Yes it is," responded Robert, cleaning his hands from the poor boy's blood. "He'll survive." So young to endure a limb loss, he thought, troubled. Robert felt strange again. Weak tremors consumed his body. Before his eyes, the sounds and sights of the wounded, the hospital, and the raging storm paled into a lost horizon. In its wake faint, ghastly images took form. The same old oaks dotted the summer of the grounds sprinkled with tufts of green grass. A robin flew past. Clouds of dust settled. In the distance, against the silence of the peaceful twilit sky, a girl's form etched beneath the branches of a large oak. She appeared bent over an exhausted woman lying on grassy turf, something protruding from her shoulder. Startled, he rubbed his eyes and looked again. He was no longer inside the hospital barn, with his patients. He was, however, out on the same grounds as the barn, but there was no barn. The same creek was a short distance away, gurgling along its course. This is absurd, he reflected. He shifted his attention to the woman and child. There was no mistaking it. It was the same pair he saw in the bizarre illusion of an hour ago. How peculiar that they should be here. An eerie feeling slithered down his spine. Twigs snapped underneath his boots as he made his way to them. "Hello," spoke Robert. Startled, the girl looked at him, ashen-faced and strained. Her eyes were wide open with dread. The woman, covered by a thin blanket, moaned from pain. "Hello," he repeated. Terrified, she nodded, then faced the woman. "Don't fear. I'm not going to hurt you. What happened that frightened you so?" "The ambush," choked the young girl. "We weren't prepared. My mother, she got hurt something terrible. She's bleeding, she's dying." She turned her head, facing him. "She's got an arrow in her shoulder. Tried to pull it out, but it's stuck. I don't know what to do. No doctors here. So many of us got hurt. Everybody else went over yonder." She pointed toward the creek where many cared for their own. He recalled the odd feeling of flight he had earlier, just before his first amputation of the day. It must have been this woman and child he had envisioned before, running for their lives. "Perhaps I can help," he offered. "Arrow wounds are not always fatal." Robert pulled back the cover and examined the bleeding, painful shoulder. An arrowhead lodged deep in the bone, its shaft sticking out. He began wiping away the blood from the injury, preparing its extraction from the miserable woman. Grasping the arrow's shaft, he pulled strongly, and failed. It was stuck. The woman screamed, then fainted. The girl gasped, tears welling up in her eyes. Again he tried. This time it dislodged, along with some bone fragments. From torn strips of petticoat, he dressed the wound. "She'll be all right," Robert assured the daughter with compassion. "We're pretty grateful to you, sir," said the girl. "She would have died for sure if you hadn't helped." He smiled in return and asked, "What is your name?" Beads of perspiration dripped down her forehead. Still worried and exhausted she answered, "It's Megan. Megan White, Sir." "What is your age?" "I'm ten years old, sir," she said, twitching a strand of hair. She covered her mother with the blanket and hovered over her. The girl gave him no further concern. A loud, piercing thunderclap yanked him from the trance. Furious rain hammered the ground and barn. Inside, the dankness failed to camouflage the nauseating smell of sickness, blood and the pain of the maimed. Wails persisted. At his feet, on the hard dirt floor lay a soldier, motionless. A bullet in his back. He put his hand on the man's damp forehead. It felt cold. He probed for a pulse, there was none. Death struck during the night. After a short time, two stone-faced soldiers with a stretcher came and set it down on the ground beside the corpse. They rolled it onto the stretcher and without comment, whisked it out of sight to the death house. As he watched, Robert felt the blood drain from his face. He continued with his rounds. The day slipped to evening. Listening to the weary rain, bit-by-bit, Robert discerned a warm, sunny sensation overtaking the misery of the barn. The battering rain ceased, the wintry gloom withered. In the distance a bluebird chimed. Bright drops of sunlight splashed onto Megan's dark, glossy hair. She sat, alone, on the single step of her log-built dwelling, stitching homespun linen. The outside air felt warm and pleasant. Robert smiled. "How is your mother?" "She's fine, sir." "Has her shoulder healed?" "Yes, sir. She has good use of her arm, even though there's an ugly scar," she replied, straightening the pleats of her hand-stitched muslin frock. "We had a frightful scare that day in the woods." He wrinkled his eyebrows, perplexed. Impossible. How could her mother recover in a few short hours? "If you hadn't happened along, that afternoon, two years back," she continued. "I would be an orphan today, more so since my father passed on soon after my birth." Two years ago! Stunned, he scrutinized Megan in detail. She had the same dark eyes, the same dark hair, bundled at the nape of her neck. She seemed a bit taller than before. Overall, she appeared older than when he saw her last, in fact she looked like a 12-year-old. Bewildered, he swallowed some air. Moments of silence followed. For the want of something to say Robert found himself asking, "Do you like poetry?" and pulled out the printed sheets he placed in his breast pocket, what seemed to him, that morning. "I have some you can read for your pleasure." "I like listening when somebody recites it, but I can't read what's there." "Why not?" "Don't know my letters, sir," Megan bit her lower lip, abashed. "No need to know them. Girls can't learn such things anyway." "You can if you want to," he said. "They're easy to master. Come, I'll show you." He picked up a twig and drew a few letters in the hard packed earth, sounding them out at the same time. "You try," he said, handing her the makeshift writing tool. "No, I can't do things like that," she replied. "I'm good at regular chores, like sewing, cooking and cleaning. Don't have a need for letter learning." "There's so much more, Megan. At least try," he encouraged her. "Watch." After smoothing the dirt, he repeated the examples. She puckered her nose. Curiosity sparked an interest in the girl while she observed and listened. Soft summer breezes whispered through the branches of the old oak trees. Nearby, perched a bluebird upon the blossoms of an apple branch, chirping a melodic tune. Fleecy clouds sailed across the blue sky. "Try it. You can do it," he said, pressing her on. He placed the twig in her hand. At a snail's pace, she scraped into the hard packed earth, first an ‘A,’ then a ‘B.’' Her first efforts, at best, were awkward, the letters no more than scribbles. She tried and failed and tried again. At last, the sketched letters became clear and strong, the writing boasted a gentle slant. "I did it," she dimpled, her eyes sparkling. Clasping her hands in excitement, she added, "I did it. And want to do more!" The corners of his mouth tilted upward. He had sown the seeds of desire, a desire to learn, in her. They spent the remainder of the sunny afternoon on alphabet lessons.
The rain continued. After departing from the post office in town, Robert stopped at the general merchandise store. While selecting some provisions, he came across a dusty shelf in the back. On one side lay some old, weather-beaten books. Shuffling through the selection, he found a speller with simple grammar. It still had a few years of use left. Perfect for Megan. He hesitated. This is quite ludicrous, he told himself, she doesn't even exist. Nothing but a figment of my imagination. Nevertheless, he purchased it along with the other supplies, then returned to the hospital. That evening he ate alone wondering about Megan. She and her mother were obviously newcomers, settling the land where the barn stands, but in years gone by, in 1678! Absurd. Convinced that she and everything associated with her was an illusion, Robert retired to his quarters, before his customary time. Placing an oil lamp on a small, rough table beside his cot he settled for a long night. He picked up the speller and opened it flat on his lap and turned the pages, first one then two. The sixth page developed a faint wrinkle down its center. Robert spied it. A tingling odd sensation rippled through his fingers as he held the volume. The wrinkle grew. It branched into the adjoining page. Pages six and seven stared up at him, and like lightening shattering dark rain-swept skies, the wrinkle radiated into more wrinkles. Stunned, both leaves, began to writhe and crinkle. Robert froze. With closed eyes he felt the pages twist and turn. The book's back arched upward. Startled, he opened his eyes, and watched the whole speller warp and crumple. And then, like a solar flare, it exploded into the white feathery flames of a dove. He rose, bracing the elegant bird on the backs of his hands and launched it upwards. The bird majestically spread its regal wings and soared into the clear blue sky. He watched it a few moments as it flew away, then dropped onto the cot. Closing his blood shot eyes, drained from the exhausting demands of the day, he drifted into a light, disturbed sleep. In the morning Robert woke with a start. Beside him, on the rugged table, lay the speller, fine and well preserved. The dove must have been a strange dream, nothing more, he assured himself. Things like that don't happen. He stopped dead in his thoughts. On top of the cover, lay a single white feather. He opened the volume to pages six and seven. They were as smooth as silk. In the margins, scribbled simple words stared at him. It's as if someone had been practicing he reasoned. It looked like Megan's writing style. His mind must be playing tricks. After all, he could have scratched those words himself, and not Megan. She didn't exist. The girl never had existed, had she? She was nothing more than a phantom from his imagination. He never met nor spoke to her. The realities of hallucinations are not possible. She lived almost two hundred years back, if she had indeed existed at all. But the handwriting, strong with a gentle slant, did not spell his. He recognized it. The penning was hers. Robert thought of something. A week later, while on break from duties, he strode to the general store and bought a few more books, one about history, another grammar and a third containing stories. That night he stacked them on the rough table by his bedside, careful to place the volumes not too near the oil lamp. The following morning he woke before sunrise. While stretching, he noticed the books, they were just as he had placed them the night before, except a solitary white feather lay on top.
Robert thought Megan looked radiant as he approached the crooked creek that flowed behind her cottage. She sat upon a log, dangling bare feet in the crisp spray of its cool waters. She gave him a wide smile from beneath a plain straw hat, brimming with the innocence of youth. At 15, she was graceful and handsome with a figure that any mother would be proud of. "It's a pleasure to see you this morning," said Robert. "Good morning," she tossed her head back and smiled. Eyeing a few loose sheets in one hand, a quill in the other, he asked, "What are you holding?" "Nothing," she replied, her cheeks warming. "It appears to be prose of some sort. You're writing. I would enjoy reading anything you pen. Could you share it with me?" "Oh, no, please," she replied. "I cannot do that." Her face darkened. "Why not?" asked Robert, confused with the sudden change of demeanor. "Nobody knows about them. No one must ever know," replied Megan. "My mother calls writings useless rubbish filling my head. She says such things take time away from chores. Poetry and prose have no use here." "It's not useless," said Robert. "Such things are so unwomanly, reading and writing like I do." She shifted her weight. "Please, don't let anyone know. This must be kept a secret." Thunder crashed after electric bolts of lightening shattered the dark, grey skies. It hauled Robert back to reality. The tiring rain persisted. "Doctor Tarlton. Two more arriving," an orderly bellowed, in a deep voice. Four men were carrying them in out of the dreary weather. Both were wet, dirty and blood soaked. One was placed on an empty pine bough bed. The other, dazed, lifted onto the butcher's block, his right arm fractured. Robert fought the attacking nausea. Another limb, perhaps another death. The horror of it all appalled him. Several times during the next few weeks, he walked into town and purchased a book, each one on a different topic. Occasionally, he would choose a volume with stories. Then, before retiring for the night, he would set it on the bedside table. And as always, he drifted to sleep, comforted by the knowledge that a white dove's feather would be found on top of the volume the following morning. It struck him as peculiar that he never encountered the white dove again.
Fluffy clouds, pierced by sunbeams, drifted across the clear blue sky. Beneath the blossoms of an apple tree, hidden from the view of the cottage, sat Megan, somewhere in her mid-twenties. She read from a volume full of short stories and sipped cool lemonade, a pile of hand written verses by her side. Summer breezes graced her soft dark hair. "Good afternoon," said Robert. "Good afternoon," she responded, a smile gracing her mouth, eyes twinkling. She offered him a glass of the refreshing drink. He could smell hot bread loaves, and pumpkin custard cooling on a window pane, and the sweetness of fresh baked cinnamon rolls. "You seem delighted," said Robert. "I am," she replied pleased to see him. "It's my secret. I wish to share it with you." "Please do." "In my spare time I've crafted some poetry and short stories," genuine pride reflected in her voice. "You'll be the first person to read my work." He took the sheets from her hand and read three of several poems, and two of the stories. They were romantic. Admiration shone in his eyes. "They're beautiful, Megan." She dimpled and thanked him. "Share them with the world. Get them published," he urged. "Oh, I couldn't," she answered, dejection resonated in her voice. "It's not that I wouldn't want to. Nobody publishes what a woman composes, let alone read. I would be embarrassed." "They're captivating Megan," he persisted. "No, it is not to be," she said. "Try."
That was the last time he saw or spoke to Megan, seven years ago. He often wondered what had become of her. Perhaps she had been nothing more than an illusion, an escape from the sights of battle inflicted agony. It seemed so real, however, those warm days spent tutoring her letters and grammar, of discussing medicine and other subjects, and reading her poems and stories under apple blossoms. He enjoyed it. She proved to have been such an eager and capable student. Yet he had nothing to prove that she even once existed, nothing. Those phantom memories seemed of a time so long ago. While preparing his lecture notes, Robert thought back to the horror and suffering of the wounded during the war. It haunted him still. He flinched at the recollection of the piles of bloody, wasted limbs his blade created, albeit, it often saved many lives. Too many maimed or dead, though. Always pitied them. He never regretted leaving that bloody occupation, it was the best decision possible. Teaching gave him greater satisfaction. After delivering his physiology lecture to first year medical students, he strolled over to the new book shop, a mile away from campus. At the shop, he plunged into browsing, a favorite pastime. A pleasant looking woman, in her mid-twenties, and dark hair plaited at the nape of her neck, with skin smoother than cream, stood at the counter. She smiled at him. "May I help you?" she asked. "No thank you," he replied. He looked at her and felt a shadow of familiarity. "I'm looking around today." After a pause he added, "Have we met before?" "I don't believe so. I have recently arrived in this city," she dimpled, reflecting sparkles in her brown eyes. "If there is a particular book you want, please let me know, sir. I would be glad to help you." "Well, perhaps there is," responded Robert prolonging the conversation. "Poetry and short stories always give me enjoyment." "Any type of poetry or stories?" "No, not really." "Well, I may have something that might interest you," she said. She weaved her way, past shelves and stacks, to a side table displaying several publications. He followed her. "This arrangement has some books, either short stories or poetry. However," pointing to a small edition, she added, "this one contains both. It was composed long ago by my great-grandmother. It got published a month before her marriage." A hint of family pride radiated from her face. In the center of the display, bound in rich brown leather, lay the volume. A painting of a white dove graced the corner. Robert picked it up and examined it. The title and author's name were embossed in gold. Its title: Where the Silvery Creek Runs: Tales and Verses. With a start, he eyed the writer's name in disbelief. This can't be, he reasoned. Opening it to the third page, he saw the inscription, bold and beautiful. It read: To Dr. Robert Tarlton, Thank you. And the author: Megan White. It happened. She did it, was all he could think of. She achieved what she believed she couldn't. Megan, you did it! A sense of gratified accomplishment washed over him. As he thumbed through the pages, his eyes moistened, feeling her success. Yes, Megan White, his thoughts continued, you're a ghost from the past, dead and long gone, but your exotic prose dances gracefully across the years, never to fade from eternity. "I'll purchase this one," he said, a slight smile crossing his face. "It's splendid." "Yes, it's a lovely volume." The sparkle in her eyes charmed him. A few days later he found himself in the bookshop again, browsing among the many volumes on the shelves. At the counter, Megan's great granddaughter, lovely in a yellow and cream dress, with a shawl draped around her shoulders, was helping a fair and plump woman. He picked up a thick book, oblivious to its title and began leafing through the pages. "These two books are delightful," she spoke to the plump woman. "I believe your young niece and nephew will enjoy them very much." "Yes, I think they will." Robert edged his way nearer to the counter, pretending to be lost in the pages of the volume. The plump woman paid for her selections and left. Splashes of sunlight illuminated the interior. Robert peered up from the book and with a reserved shyness spoke, "Good afternoon, Miss." She turned her head, dimpled and replied, "Good afternoon, sir." He laid down the volume and smiled in return.
About the author, Najla Ann Al-Doori I enjoy science fiction and speculative stories very much. My interests include reading - fiction and nonfiction, crafting stories, movies, light travel and general science. The two other zines that feature my works are Aphelion and Beyond SF. I live with my husband of 15 years. |