CHAPTER 1
It was World War I. Georges trudged warily with his fellow soldiers.It was an unforgiving, cold autumn. Their French Army uniforms werebarely sufficient against the damp winds and mist that seeped intotheir very bones. It was a soggy fall twilight. The damp made the coldworse, and it chilled clear through their jackets and seeped into theirvery bones. There was no barrier against the frigid air. There was onlythe smell of decaying leaves and the sound of boots trudging throughthe thick mud that caked and weighed down their steps.
Georges looked to his left to see the body of a fellow soldier, stifffrom rigor mortis, who had turned an obscene color of pale blue. Thedead man's eyes were blank with a milky haze growing over them.The mouth was open and black, like the grave awaiting him. Georgeslooked away and kept moving. He recognized the soldier but didn'thave time to contemplate the passing of another life. He was mildlyhardened to the sight of death by now, but only mildly. He could onlyhope time would exorcise the horrors of what he had seen.
Soon after he passed the fallen soldiers, the sound of bullets flyinghotly through the frigid air erupted. He hit the ground and winced atthe cold solidness of the earth beneath him. The bullets whizzed pasthim, making a banshee cry near his ear. They were followed by thesounds of shells and mortars exploding in the mist before him. Hebriefly felt the stroke of the explosion on his face, and he instinctivelylifted his arm to protect his eyes and face. He was okay; it wasn't closeenough.
Men nearby cried out and panted for air as they tried with all theirmight to move through the mud. The sucking clay pulled like littlehands holding them back and tugging them down as if complicit withthe enemy. The sounds of gunfire, mortars, and men's shouts increasedas the final, timid streams of light pierced through the clouds beforefading.
Georges got up from the mud and ran, following two fellow soldiers.The three of them dashed for cover, but it was too late. Through themists and mounting darkness, bullets flew and finally found them.
There was a flash of light and buzzing, and he heard the sound ofhis own heavy breathing. Georges was lying in the mud on his belly.His helmet had been forcibly pushed off his head. He touched his headand then looked at his hand to see his own blood. Only then did itdawn on him he had been shot. He couldn't even recall how he hadended up lying in the mud. The insectlike buzzing sound in his earspersisted. He thought it odd to hear buzzing in this cold of autumn.For Georges, time seemed to have changed, moving forward in fitsand spurts. One of the other soldiers was facedown in the mud; he wasalready dead. The other was slumped against a tree stump, breathinghis dying breaths. Sights and sounds momentarily blended togetherand moved in spasms till they flowed back to normalcy again. The hotbuzzing in his ears subsided.
Georges finally became aware of his pain. His eyes narrowed fromthe agony. He strained to focus his vision at some movement up ahead.At first he thought it was German troops, but there wasn't the universalmovement of urgency and stealth common to soldiers in the heat ofbattle. Suddenly, two men seemed to form out of the very mist itself.They seemed unaware, unconcerned about the violence and chaosaround them. They were unflinching, steadfast, almost casual aboutthe bursts of gunfire and mortar explosions around them. They didn'tseem to react to any of it. Only the dying men around them seemedto pique their interest.
Georges watched them without fear. His curiosity outweighed hispersistent dizziness and pain. Both men were modestly dressed, likepeasants or poor farmers. Both had crude, soiled cloth satchels at theirsides. One had a cruel, hungry grimace on his face. His cold, blue eyeswere large and set deeply into cavernous orbital bones, but the irisesseemed far too small. The eyes were set unnaturally close to each other,adding a ravenous, predatory look. Those eyes hungrily scanned thehorizon in quick, jerky movements. The man's features were pointedand sharp, giving him an overall reptilian look. Thin wisps of dirtyblond hair swept over and around his head when the damp wind choseto move them. Georges retained enough of his faculties to feign deathas the man looked in his direction. Georges acted like hiding prey, ababy rabbit keenly aware of a merciless, hungry predator nearby.
The man walked past Georges. He approached the fallen soldierand poked him like a cruel child would a pained and helpless animal.He bent over to look into the man's face. The soldier was not yet dead.The dying man looked into the eyes of the cruel one. Immediately, thesoldier started to scream. Soon afterward, his eyes went empty andstill. He was dead. The cruel one placed his hand over the man's face.Long, bony white fingers seemed to draw out what must have beenthe last of his breath. A vapor rose out of the dead man's mouth andformed a small, pulsating sphere in the cruel one's hand. The vaporseemed to ball up tighter in the man's hand as he looked it over withcold disinterest. With his other hand, he opened the cloth satchel.To Georges, it seemed a mournful moan came from deep within thesatchel. He could see a deep darkness that absorbed all light in thesatchel. The man with the cruel eyes placed the ball of vapor into thedarkness, closed the cover, and moved on.
More movement caught Georges' eyes. The other man was dressedin almost the same manner as the cruel peasant, but Georges readsomething entirely different in him. His features were rounded, thick,and strong instead of thin and sharp. His face was oval, and he hadbrown, calm, clear eyes. Auburn hair swirled about his features fromtime to time. His jaw had a determined set to it as his eyes scanned thehorizon. Much like the first man, he seemed to be seeking something.But he didn't seem as much to be hunting as looking for a lost childor beloved pet.
This second man approached the second fallen soldier. He turnedhim over gently and looked sympathetically into his dead face and eyes.With thick fingers reddened by the cold, he also drew out a vapor fromthe dead man, but when he opened his satchel, a distant light emanatedfrom within it. There was a peaceful stillness where there should havebeen sound. He placed the vapor into his satchel and moved on.
The dead man's face momentarily flashed a look of peace before thepallor of death continued to grow over it. The other man moved on,seeming to follow his companion. But before he did, he locked eyeswith Georges, who wasn't able to feign death as quickly this time.
Instantly, the cruel one reappeared at his companion's side. It wasalmost as if there had been some form of communication betweenthem. They both looked at Georges. They seemed almost as surprisedthat they had been detected as Georges was to have gotten their notice.The cruel one stepped toward Georges, but the other one placed hisarm in front of him to block his path. The cruel one looked angrilyat his companion, as if he wanted to spit venom at him, but then heimpatiently moved on over the battlefield. It seemed that while theywere companions, they weren't friends. Georges had the sense that theywere adversaries forced to work together for a common cause.
The kinder of the two men looked at Georges briefly, knowingly.They locked eyes for a long moment, but then he moved on, followinghis cruel companion. They both looked back at Georges briefly as if tosay they'd meet again.
Georges closed his eyes and lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 2
Georges' senses slowly and fitfully rose to the surface ofconsciousness and to the sounds of clanging bedpans, the muffledpatter of nurses' footsteps, and hushed voices. The cries of pain frommen were punctuated with other sounds in and around the militaryhospital beds. The smells of disinfectant, urine, and blood hung inthe air. In time, the pained cries of the men were tended to, whileothers stoically waited for help with their pain. Georges touched hishead and was surprised to feel a layer of gauze where he expected tofeel hair and skin.
Then he too cried out. His was a fearful cry, like that of a childwho has been thrust into the cold world to discover it is alive. Thesounds of rapid steps neared his bed. A woman's soft, comfortingvoice spoke to him while strong hands and arms held him downto prevent him from hurting himself. Georges could feel his handsshaking uncontrollably as they sought out something to hold onto.
He recognized her speaking French and was assured and calmeda bit to hear his native tongue spoken.
"You are going to be okay. You sustained a head wound, a fracturedskull, but you're expected to make a full recovery."
He relaxed some, and she continued calmly, "It seems that thebullet had to travel too long and too far to kill you. Either way,it wasn't your day. You'll live. It looks worse than it is. Don't bealarmed."
Georges calmed down even though he only comprehended everyother word as he rose to full consciousness. He watched half theworld through gauze and the other half through his uncovered eyefor long moment. Finally, he found himself thinking about thosetwo men as he looked only through the bandages that were wrappedacross the right side of his head. As his eye tried to focus throughthe gauze, it reminded him of that fragile gossamer mist that wasdrawn from the two soldiers on the battlefield. The thought chilledhim even through his fevered panic.
Days later, the gauze having been replaced by smaller and smallerpieces, Georges sat up in his hospital bed for the first time since hisarrival.
In the middle of the night, he woke up from a deep sleep.Something seemed to call his name, drawing him from the deepwaters of slumber. When his eyes opened, there was nobody therecalling his name, just breathing and snoring from the sleeping bodiesof the other injured men. The dim light from the nurses' stationglinted. There was the quiet, efficient movement of doctors andnurses attending to soldiers lying in the military hospital beds. Heheld up his hands and remembered them shaking, almost vibratingfrom fear; they were steady again. That eternal artistic itch returned.It was time to draw, to create soon.
In the middle of the night, he woke up from a deep sleep.Something seemed to call his name, drawing him from the deepwaters of slumber. When his eyes opened, there was nobody therecalling his name, just breathing and snoring from the sleeping bodiesof the other injured men. The dim light from the nurses' stationglinted slightly from the windows above the other hospital beds.Georges was jolted as he looked at the bank of windows oppositehim. He saw the faces of the two men he had seen in the mist on thebattlefield. He reflexively pulled his hospital blanket to his mouth tosubdue a gasp of fear and surprise. Georges didn't want to draw theirattention, but he watched just the same.
Georges looked at the reflections that hovered outside the windowof a badly injured soldier. He heard voices but realized he was hearingtwo of the nurses discussing how if this soldier made it through thenight, he might have a chance for survival. They were hopeful butnot overly so.
Georges cried out loudly. Two nurses quickly came to thesound.
"What's wrong? Are you in pain?"
"No. It's not me. It's them." Georges pointed to the window, butthey were gone. The full moon's light streamed past a cloud and intothe hospital room now. He had the look of crazed delirium and theweariness of broken sleep on his face. The nurses thought he was inthe throes of a waking dream and considered slapping him out ofhis delirium.
He lifted his arm and pointed at the window and cried out,"Didn''t you see them? The two that signal death. When they appear,it means they've come to collect the souls of the dying."
They restrained him as he halfheartedly fought them. One of thenurses ran for a doctor, who was quickly dispatched to Georges' side.He efficiently administered the sedative.
The doctor pushed him down and said quietly but urgently, "Youcan't be acting out like this, Georges. You have to consider the othermen. Some of them might die from their wounds. We have only somany doctors and medicines to help them." His voice softened and hecontinued, "They need the healing of quiet and calm, not your sillyfictions or hallucinations. You can't be acting out like this. Now rest,soldier, and be quiet. That's an order."
The next day, Georges awoke and looked hopefully across to thebed with the badly injured soldier. The sheet was already pulled overhis head, and the gurney, wheels squeaking as it rolled across thefloor, was coming to remove his body. Georges stared stonily at thenurse. Their eyes met for an uncomfortable moment; then Georgesturned his head and leaned into his pillow. He stared into space forthe longest time. Some of the hope that he had just imagined thetwo men reflected in the window faded as his eyes stared unfocusedout into space. He wrestled with the memory of the specters fromthe night before in his mind.
Days later, Georges asked one of the day nurses if someonecould provide him with a sketchbook and a charcoal stick or maybeeven a pencil or two. He filled the evening hours with drawing andrecording what he had seen on the battlefield and in the hospitalroom and what he thought he had seen in the window. Georges tunedout all the hospital's sounds for several days. The small lamp near hisbed provided him his only light at night. Dim as it was, he continuedto draw with his now-steady hands. He was focused tightly on thesketchbook on his lap. His hand moved feverishly from page to page.He wore down several pencils to small stubs, wasting nothing. Heonly paused to consider what he deemed worthy to be committed tosketch paper.
Soon he was able to walk into the adjacent halls but only tostretch his legs; the nurses and doctors still cautioned him againstoverexertion. Once that was done, he returned to a chair or his bed todraw and record his thoughts. He continued intently even when thepretty young nurse on night duty tried to pull his attention away fromhis sketches. She seemed concerned that he seemed so withdrawninto himself, and decided to take an interest in her patient.
"I'm going to have to turn off the light."
He looked up at the sound of her voice and saw her gazing athim with a concerned expression on her face. She looked down athis drawings, which he had just spread out on the bed, with whatappeared to be more than a patronizing interest.
"So you're an artist? What are these? What are you sketchingthere?"
"The something I saw—or thought I saw—when I was shot. Itwas right before I lost consciousness. Most strange."
"Yes. Strange in what way?"
Georges looked up at the nurse and smiled slightly. "No, youprobably already think I'm mad. I'm quite sure most of the nurses anddoctors already think so. After all, I was wounded in my head." Hepointed to his head and grinned in a self-depreciating way.
The nurse looked curiously at what he had sketched. She pointedto his sketchbook. "May I look?"
Georges nodded. He waited to see what type of reaction his workwould garner. She opened the sketchbook. The faces of the two menGeorges had seen on the battlefield the day he was shot were sketchedon opposing pages. Below each of those faces, he had started toabstract them. He had written notes on the pages of the sketchbookas well. The nurse looked first at the most realistic renderings andthen at each abstraction and distortion of the faces with interest.
She pointed at the drawing of the first one. "He has a cruel andugly look about him."
Georges nodded in agreement.
She looked him in the eyes. "Does this have anything to do withyour nightmare the other night? These drawings?"
He looked down at the page and self-consciously pushed backhis coarse, brown hair. He continued talking while he drew. "Oh,you know about that? Yes, I saw two men. They didn't look as ifthey belonged there; they had no fear of bombs or guns being fired.It didn't matter to them, as if the bullets weren't meant for them.Two other soldiers were shot near me. Those two strange figuresapproached them, approached us. It was as if they were there toharvest their souls."
The nurse looked at Georges with surprise. He noticed herreaction, and his green eyes unflinchingly met hers this time. Hegrinned, but more in response to his own thoughts than for herbenefit.
(Continues...)
