Megiddo's Shadow (2 page)

What if we lost the war? Then Hector's sacrifice would be for nothing. “I have to enlist,” I whispered. Dad stared into space, not hearing me. “I have to enlist,” I repeated, louder.

His eyes grew cold. “You're fifteen years old—that's far too young!”

“I'm sixteen! All you have to do is sign the permission papers.”

“I would never sign them. Don't even think of it.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Hector's gone. He's … gone. You're all I have left, Edward.”

“It's my duty.”

“No.” Though his voice and body were shaking, he managed to sit up. “Now, you listen to me, Edward! It's
not
your duty. Duty is what kills young men. I knew what he was getting into. I should have made him stay home.”

“We're at war! He didn't have a choice, and neither do I.”

“You'll stay here.”

I wanted to shout No,
I won't!
but I bit my tongue and spoke as calmly as I could. “All the gram is in. Only our cows need to be fed, and the Somnerses will help with that. If I'm not back by spring we can rent our land to Mr. Sparrow.”

“I don't rent my land.”

“Well, why don't you get out of bed and do the work yourself, then? I've been doing it all on my own for seven months.”

I thought he was going to leap up and strike me. I waited, shouting silently—
Get up! Get up! Hit me! What do I care?
But he slumped back.

“Never speak to me that way again.” His voice was hoarse.

“I am your father. You aren't going anywhere. I forbid it.”

Then he closed his eyes.

*     *     *

I couldn't stay in the house. I stomped around the yard, not bothering with my overcoat because I wanted to freeze right to the bone. I stood in the stubble of the nearest field and stared across the rolling land at the sinking sun. In the spring our home quarter looked beautiful and green, but now it was dead and cold.

I wiped my eyes and the sun blurred.

“God made the sun,” Mom had told me when I was little, holding my hand. “God made the sky and the earth and the animals, all out of nothing. And then he made men the keepers of the earth.” It was such a simple revelation: all of the world made by one hand and entrusted to the care of mankind. And who was a better keeper of the earth than the British Empire? From Australia to India to South Africa to Canada, we were putting everything in order, taming all the savage lands.

But now the dirty Huns were wrecking it all. They'd invaded Belgium and France, raping women, crucifying soldiers, even tossing babies onto bayonets.

I clenched my jaw and looked skyward.
Dear God
, I prayed,
why did you let the Germans kill him?
No, that wasn't what I wanted to ask. They had done the deed. What I really wanted to know was when could I take an eye for an eye? When could I do my duty? I waited for an answer, but all that moved in the heavens were a few red-tinged clouds.

There were still chores to do, so I trudged into the barn, the last rays of the sun shining through the far window. I stabbed the fork into the hay and first fed Abigail, Dad's horse.

Caesar, Hector's horse, followed me to his trough, nudging my side. All along I'd been feeding and brushing him carefully, waiting for the day Hector would return and tell me I'd done a good job.

“Hector's dead,” I whispered to Caesar. He turned back his ears. The words made no sense. “He used to ride you and now he's dead.”

Caesar looked at me and I leaned against him and stroked his mane. “He's dead, dead, dead.” After a moment, I pushed myself away. Caesar would be mine now. The thought made me sick.

Hector had taught me how to snare gophers. We'd swing them by the neck and hang them on the fence, pretending they were Boers. I'd do the same to the Germans.

“Hector is your North,” Mom used to say. “Whichever way he goes, you go, too.” It was true; I followed him like a dog, chased cattle through creeks with him, went on long rides into the Cypress Hills looking for Red Indians or bears. He punched me when I got on his nerves, passed on words of encouragement when I learned to skate, and passed down his clothes to me when he'd outgrown them. I touched my chest. My overalls had once been his. I bit my lip. My body was shaking in the cold.

I could hear his voice reading bits of the newspaper to me, articles describing how Canada had bravely declared war alongside England.

“I'm gonna go,” he told me a few weeks before his eighteenth birthday. “I wanted to tell you first. I'll break it to Dad tonight. You'll have to pick up the slack around here, but you're plenty strong enough to do that.”

He signed up in Moose Jaw and wrote a letter home nearly every week. I'd memorized them all.

There'd be no more letters now. I grabbed the pitchfork and jabbed a seed sack, imagining it was a German. Hector was in the ground. Taken away from me. I stabbed the sack again and again, then slammed the fork against the wall.

Hector was dead and the war was still going on. This wasn't a time to lie around reading about it in
Boy's Own Paper
. I knew what I had to do.

A
t two in the morning I crept past the dark rectory to the church, my rucksack slung over my shoulder. I slowly opened the front door. The full moon shone through the windows, casting shadows across empty pews. A stained-glass Mary watched as I walked down the aisle. And Jesus, too, dressed in white robes, hugging a lamb, his eyes full of forgiveness.

I set my rucksack on the front pew and let out my breath. I reached into the bag, pulled out the letter I'd just composed, and walked toward the altar. Christ's eyes followed me. He'd been a good son, doing everything his father had asked. Jesus knew his duty. He had sacrificed his life to save mankind from sin. I would have to be just as brave as him.

I set the letter on the altar where Reverend Ashford would find it in the morning.

The polished-wood smell of the church was soothing and
familiar. I stood where I'd been confirmed four years earlier, when I was twelve. Back then Mom had pressed the collar of my white shirt so stiff my neck had been rubbed raw. A year later I wore that same shirt to her funeral. She'd caught galloping consumption, and though I asked God to save her, she had suffered a horrible death, coughing up so much blood she drowned in it. Sometimes God has his own, mysterious plans.

She was in heaven now, at least. With Hector by her side.

I climbed the two steps into the choir loft, my favorite place in the church. People came from miles away to enjoy my voice: a gift passed down from my mother; from God. Pride is the Devil's work, but I really was good. Mother and I had sung together several times, bringing the congregation to tears.

Singing was the one thing Hector couldn't do. I reminded him of that by waking him up with a loud song every harvest morning. He'd cover his head and shout, “Get the gun, Dad, there's a giant canary in the house!”

But once, after Mom had left us, I'd sung solo at a wedding, and Hector had later told me, “You've got a glorious gift, Edward. Keep singing. It reminds me so much of Mom.”

I leaned against the loft rail, closed my eyes, and quietly sang:

It was my favorite hymn. When I sang it, I felt God reaching down from heaven to lift me up. Maybe Mom and Hector could hear me.

“Practicing for Sunday, are you, Edward?”

My eyes snapped open. Reverend Ashford stood at the end of the aisle, a bear-sized man with a priest's collar.

I moved to the altar, snatched up the envelope, and held it at my side.

He walked down the aisle, the hardwood floor creaking. “Can't sleep, eh? Me neither. Too many grumbling bones.” He stepped into the loft and looked down at me. In the moonlight, the ragged scar on his right cheek shone. “This time of night is when I do my heavy thinking, but it's kind of late for you—those morning chores have to be done regardless of how much shut-eye you get.”

I felt a stab of guilt.

“What's that in your hand?”

“A letter,” I said.

“I assume it's for me. May I have a look?”

I handed it to him and he began to read. He glanced at me, then finished the letter. Sweat dripped from my underarms.

“You sound as if you've made up your mind,” he finally said. “Have you?”

I nodded.

“You want to join up with Hector?”

“He's dead. Killed.” I hesitated. “A bullet through the heart.”

Reverend Ashford's shoulders slumped. “Dear Lord, terrible, terrible news! Our Hector? My boy, my boy, I can only
imagine how you must feel right now.” He put his hand on my shoulder. I looked away. I wouldn't cry. “Hector,” he said softly, “he was so full of life. It's hard to believe. Dear God. Such a waste.”

“He wasn't wasted! He did his duty.”

“Yes, he did, Edward. But there was just so much more he'd have done here—farming, marriage, children. I know he served well, but … Hector.” His name echoed in the church. “How's your father?”

“Still won't get out of bed. Won't do anything.”

“Is that why you're going? To do something?”

“I have to go. Everyone else is. Even the Americans are there now.”

He watched me, expecting more.

“Hector would want me to. I know it. And … and the songs, that's another reason.” Songs?

“The ones they sing at the dance hall. About Tipperary and King and Country. They … they're telling me to go.”

Ashford was silent; then he sighed. “I was in the Boer war, did you know that?”

“Yes. Dad fought in South Africa, too.”

“That's right. Hard to believe it's been fifteen years. England asked us to go, so we went. Killing doesn't ever leave you.” The scar on Ashford's face could have been made by a saber. “I assume your father doesn't know you're gone. How do you think he'll feel?”

“He'll be angry. But he doesn't understand!”

“Perhaps he understands only too well.”

I shrugged. Dad might have given up on everything, but
I couldn't give up. Ever. Hector would never have surrendered. “Wherever you go, I'll go, too,” he'd said to his major.

“Reverend, I belong there.”

“I don't think you're making the right decision, Edward. You've just suffered a great loss. Wait a few weeks before you decide.”

Wait? I couldn't do that. They needed my help now. “I'm going.”

Reverend Ashford shook his head. “I can't stop you, Edward. You have to make your own choices and live with them.” He paused. “I'll do my best for Wilfred, and I'm sure the Daughters of the Empire will take him meals. They'll see it as part of their goal to help the war effort. And I'll ask Wilfred what arrangements he wants to make for the farm. You never know … he may get up and get to work.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

“It's why I'm here.” He lifted my rucksack and handed it across. “You're important to me, Edward. To the people of Tompkms, too. Don't ever forget that.” He set his hand on my head and I felt a lick of panic. Would he grab me and hold me back?

But his eyes were closed. I shut mine and he whispered, “Dear Lord, please watch over Edward. Give him courage and steadfast faith, good judgment, good leaders, and true friends, and bring him home to his family.” He didn't remove his hand, so I opened my eyes. “And you bloody well better keep your head down over there!” he said, looking me straight in the eye.

I nodded, we shook hands, and I marched out of the church without looking back. I walked down Second Street,
past the Cypress Hotel and the Bmter General Store. My footsteps echoed on the wooden sidewalk, a sound like knocking on a coffin.

I had everything I needed inside the rucksack: a change of clothes, Dad's spare razor, my pocket Bible, a few other books, and a pencil.

I hummed “Onward, Christian Soldiers” and followed the mam road heading east. Someone would come along at sunrise and give me a ride. In the meantime, I could use the fresh air.

S
everal hours and three rides later, I stood under the shadow of City Hall in downtown Moose Jaw. The tower clock read half past three. I was exhausted, having only slept an hour here and there, and my stomach began to grumble because I hadn't eaten since the night before. I wondered if the Empire ladies were feeding Dad, and pictured him chowmg down on ham and fried potatoes like a king. I barked out a bitter laugh—Father hadn't sat up to eat for months; all his meals were delivered to his bedside, where they were mostly ignored.

I dodged a streetcar and made a beeline for the railway station. I'd already worked out my plan: I'd go to the recruiting office and say I was eighteen. I didn't have any certificates, but I knew one of Hector's underage friends had signed up without them. Besides, I'd be seventeen in December. I wasn't that far from being old enough.

The army office was located inside a railcar decorated with the Union Jack and the Canadian Red Ensign, both hanging limp in the air. One white and black banner proclaimed FREE TRIP TO EUROPE: STEP ABOARD. A second said: YOUR CHUMS ARE FIGHTING, WHY AREN'T YOU?

Four men were lined up at the door. The man at the end, dressed in a suit and long coat, nodded. By the time I'd nodded back he'd already turned away.

This platform was the last place I'd seen Hector. That had been a year earlier, and Dad had been with me, dressed splendidly in his Royal Dragoons uniform and beaming with pride in his eldest son. We'd watched as Hector and his fellow soldiers paraded past. My brother was near the front, marching perfectly while a band played “God Save the King.”

After the parade, we'd said our good-byes amid a crush of people. Children waved the Union Jack; soldiers kissed girls; mothers cried; fathers smoked cigars and patted their sons on the back.