Every time the dang owl cawed, I got one step closer to pulling my pistol out on it. Can you eat owl meat? Suppose you can eat anything if you put your mind to it. I couldn’t hear anything except for the crackle of the lamp wick, the whir of gust against the door, the screeching of misshapen floorboards from body weight, and the tap of my nails against paper. Philippians was open. Mostly because of how short it was, but also because I liked it. It really seemed like Paul liked the people of Philippi more so than the other books. It’s fun to enjoy things from those who enjoyed doing or creating whatever it is you’re indulging in. I’d give it another few minutes before going back to my Billy Boyd stories.

I took my quill out of the inkwell then and gave the air a few precise cuts—giving my best impression of a swashbuckler. I’d cut the grey hairs off the pirate’s beard often in those moments. He’d take one step flat-footed, clumsily hacking his blade from one shoulder to another, while I, nimble-toed, parried his swing, sending him reeling with a reverberating saber. He’d give me a toothless smile, wrought with submission.

I didn’t hear the caw of the owl again that night, or if I did, I couldn’t remember I did. Because that’s when I saw the gleam of a fire, flapping in the wind like a handkerchief. For a fraction of a second—maybe more—I thought to walk over to Dwight’s cabin to see what we should do about the fire, if he hadn’t already seen it. That was until I remembered he took the train back to Paris for the weekend—and also when I slapped myself in the arm for not remembering that detail in the first place.

The fire made the shadows from the trees look as if they were waving like stray pieces of seaweed. I kept on squinting out of the window to see if I could catch anything else but couldn’t. Just flickers and flashes and glints against the purple and the blue. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen black skies. The darkest seemed navy blue to me, like Mum’s favorite sweater—the one with the gold buttons and yarn trim.

Anyway, that fire kept on staring at me through wood and brick. Without Dwight there, I started to list out the options I had to take care of the fire and their benefits and drawbacks. Da used to call it a “B.A.D. List,” since it was an acronym.

I used the quill pen I had and the spare pages on the back of my Billy Boyd stories on account of it seeming unholy to jot unrelated notes in the Bible so lackadaisical like that. Before I knew it, my pages were packed to the margins and about evenly split in terms of benefits and drawbacks.

The biggest drawback to me, or the one that seemed biggest, was if the fire was either:
a.) a forest fire, given I can’t fight one of those myself, or
b.) the people around the campfire were of the bandit ilk.

The biggest benefit to me was if the people around the fire were some of the best humans God ever created. Which, if one were holding up the abacus, could argue was extremely unlikely. But so are forest fires so close to the Norman coast. Too green to burn so easily. The bandits part, I suppose, was more likely—especially after the war ended.

Herman told me a story about his cousin, Antonia I believe, and her son—is that Herman’s second cousin, since I don’t think it’s his nephew? Well, either way, the little kid is only nine and lives with his mum over in Manchester. Herman lives here now, but lived only a few blocks from them up until a handful of months ago. They were all close as can be from what he was telling me. He’d spend morning tea over there, sometimes afternoon too. He helped Antonia and Dirk, that’s her husband, with diaper changing when the boy was young and helped perfect his free kick when he was a little older. Even if the boy doesn’t quite remember now, Herman said he did, and I believe him.

Then, Dirk died like pretty much everyone did, and Antonia and Stewart fell on tough times like everyone did. Herman felt like he needed to be there, especially for little Stewart. Only thing is, after his dad passed, Stewart wanted nothing to do with Herman. He told me he’d try and go over to their place, but if he so much as knocked on the flat door the boy would start screaming this and yelling that for him to get lost. Herman kept trying, but after a while decided to give him space and Antonia too.

It stayed like that for a few months until one night, Herman heard a tap at the door. He opened it up, looked around, but didn’t see anything until he looked down. There was Stewart with red eyes and cheeks all flushed.

“Stew, buddy,” Herman said, bending over to give him a hug, I’d imagine. “Are you okay?”

No response, I’d also imagine.

“It’s late,” Herman went on. “Is everything okay, bud?”

Stewart just kept looking at the ground.

“Is it your mum? Where’s your mum?”

He took one of those real big full breaths before stuttering on, “S-she’s at—she’s at home.” By now he was sniffing and rubbing his face.

“She’s there, and you’re not?” Herman asked.

Stewart nodded.

“Did you two get into a fight, then?”

He didn’t answer.

“It’s okay if you did. Families argue all the time,” said Herman.

“We… w-we didn’t fight,” he coughed. “Someone’s over again.”

Again. Again? That’s what Herman told me he was thinking. “Someone you know?” Herman asked. Stewart shook his head slowly before falling into Herman’s arms, melting as the crying started.

“It’s okay, buddy. That’s okay now,” said Herman. “Who is it? Do you know who it is?”

Stewart’s face was pressed deep into Herman’s shoulder. He shook his head.

“You don’t know, then? Did they hurt you?”

Stewart shook his head again.

There was a pause then, where all was quiet besides the blubbering and such.

“It’s always d-different,” Stewart said. “Shoes… colored s-shoes at the house,” Stewart said.

“Shoes?”

“In the h-hallway. Different colors, different sizes. Different styles. Always different. B-by… by her… bedroom door.”

That’s when Herman got that feeling you get when someone punches you in the stomach. “Oh, bud,” Herman said, holding him tighter.

“I tried but can’t stand the moans, Herman,” Stewart said. “You don’t mind if I—”

“Oh hush now!” Herman pulled back, holding Stewart, one shoulder in each hand. “You come here whenever. Day or night or morning. You hear me?” More sniffling. “You hear me, bud?” Herman said.

Stewart nodded slowly.

Herman said after that night he was convinced that Stewart and he would be more or less back to normal, but the opposite happened. On account of Antonia getting so upset after Herman learned what she had to do for work, she banned him from seeing the boy outright. And, just like that, after months and months of trying every which way to weasel his way back into their lives, Herman relented and realized she was being serious. A couple of months later, he said he moved across the channel here, which is where I met him—at the local café I find myself at on my off days. He’s a nice guy. We had the same brand of English boots on that day, which is why he said hello.

Outside my window, the fire kept flickering. I had my nose darn near pinned against the glass of the cabin window by then. I stared at it some more, then turned my eyes to the B.A.D. list I’d scribbled. My mind kept toggling this way and that like it was tied to the back of a labrador let loose. Benefits, then drawbacks. Benefits, then drawbacks. Drawbacks, then benefits. It went something like that. That’s when I grabbed my coat, slung my boots on, and opened the door.

My first day at Tyne Cot, the administrator gave every groundsman a lamp, about 300 or so meters of rope, a hatchet, and a big notebook to record the day’s happenings for their future reference. It might be the way I think naturally, but it sure did seem like my lamp was harder to light and harder for the flame to keep compared to the others I’d seen. My hatchet though, that seemed alright.

I went out to the woods often just to practice my cuts. I remember asking Dwight why we didn’t get swords or pistols like some of the groundsmen you read about in the stories, and he said there’s already enough blood in these grounds to flush the world three times over, so that would be in poor taste for the visitors who come through. Plus, apparently the hatchet is more for utility than it is for self-defense.

I ended up leaving the lamp in my cabin since the moon was bright enough to cast shadows the sun would be jealous of. I left the rope because I couldn’t think of any good reason or situation I’d have any use for it and took the hatchet. If there were indeed bandits up where I was going, it would be a bad idea to announce my presence with a bouncing ball of light.

And that’s when I started to make my way toward the light. It had rained the day before, so the grass was soft and the dirt still hadn’t made its way back to form from mud yet. My cabin was a kilometer or so from the treeline that divided the open fields from the batches of forests that border them. Those batches all sloped up toward the sky, making for sprawls of wooded hills that gave shape to the otherwise rolling fields. The fire appeared to be coming from the closest hilltop, so I’d have to enter the woods from the right-hand side. That way, I could snake my way through the trailhead and come in from behind rather than causing a racket trying to come in head-on from the steep side.

So that’s what I did that night under the moon. I wouldn’t say the climb was unbearably strenuous, but I did have to stop three or so times to lean against a tree and catch my breath. The way my limp acted up, it was always easier to recline than it was to go from fully seated back to upright, so I did my best to save those for when I really needed them.

From that point, everything becomes a lot clearer. The way I engage the memory, I’m about fifty or so meters from the fire pit. I remember the thick soot reaching my nose. I remember that thin crackle of sticks and leaves crumbling against rubber soles. I remember a bright gray rabbit pausing to stare at me, cheeks pulsing from furious chewing before hopping away into the dark. I remember staring at a sapling that stood at the top of the hill line, where the other side wasn’t visible. It looked so naked against the other plush trees that shot to the stars. I remember the clicks of a raven right above my head as I climbed. I remember, as I edged closer, closer, closer still, that voices began to hiss in my ears. And so I stopped. The chatter, indiscernible but buzzing at a steady, sing-songy clip, sounded like whoever was talking was telling one of those stories where everyone would chime in here and there. My loud heart beats added to the rhythm as I could hear them pound through my shirt and overcoat.

I scanned around to chart the path I would take to get a closer look. From the way the bush right over the hill’s edge was flashing, the campfire couldn’t have been much further once I got to the top. So I sidled from the tree I was leaning on to the one up the path to my right, then from that one to another straight ahead. The voices were getting louder, and although I still couldn’t make out the words they were using, I could detect the timbre and feel of the voices, which sounded… boyish, childish. I stopped again and propped my body firmly against the trunk of a tree to make sure I didn’t trip over a root or crack a stick or stub a toe. Whoever was at the campfire and I were within earshot of each other now. If I so much as sneezed or coughed, they’d at the very least turn their heads, startled. I looked in front of me and saw dried sticks and leaves and twigs littered all over the earth, covering the ground up in a thin, wispy rug. I wanted to make sure I stayed quiet enough…so figured it’d be better if I crawled this last leg.

The ground was damp against my chest, and the dew spread like goosebumps through my shirt, causing my skin to twitch from the chill. I made sure to put the hatchet securely in my back belt loop as I took the position: elbows out, one knee cocked back, and my limp leg straight. I started army crawling then, chin pointed straight to the bend towards the tree, a great big English oak now that I was close enough to see it clearly.

“Oh, dear Jesus in heaven,” my mum’s voice flashed across the air so clearly then. I remembered her making the face she always did when she was ready to lash at me—the bridge of her long, V-shaped nose would scrunch, and that thin vein that was shockingly straight would emerge across the edge of her jaw.

“You muddied your damn elbows and shirt again. How many times, Timothy J. McCorty? How many times do I need to repeat myself?”

I kept trying to open up my throat to let the words out, but they stayed back there, log-jammed.

“And you,” she spun around to face my brother Jesse, “you’re supposed to set an example for him. What example are you setting, always defying your poor mum’s wishes?”

Jesse kept his head pointed to the tile of our dingy flat before he mumbled, “We didn’t think we’d get this dirty, ma’am.”

“Come again,” she said, ears perking up.

“We—I—didn’t think we’d get so dirty, Mum. Honest,” he said.

“A few days since it poured down rain, and you didn’t think you’d muddy your clothes?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“We were just pretending, Mum,” I said. “Pretending that we were crawling through a hidden tunnel.”

The vein got clearer, and her nose more scrunched.

I went on in case she didn’t understand what I said, “A hidden tunnel to the treasure. Gold and pearls to be specific, although Jesse thought the treasure would also have rubies too.”

She exhaled and clicked her tongue. “Well, go on and wash up. Jesse, help your brother with his laundry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we both said.

I remember the washing less clearly apart from Jesse always insisting he do mine on account of me never getting all the mud out. He’d ring out my shirts and knickers until they were dry as bone.

Jesse.

Jesse.

I remember the open lot that bordered the front entrance of the plant that Uncle Richard worked at. As kids, on our days off we’d pull together who we could to play rounders. The field was cracked, veiny cement with piles of gray and black rubble scattered throughout – the biggest of which we pieced together to mark the posts. That day there was a decent turnout, mostly of church friends or neighbourhood kids. One of those kids was Davis Chambers. He moved away to Manchester to work in his grandad’s pub last I heard. He was the oldest of the bunch by about two years and the biggest of the bunch by about six inches. On my second time at batting I hit a grounder out to the outfield. Even with my limp I was able to get to first post and almost second. That’s when Davis, who was fielding at first post, leaned over to me – breath smelling like a water-logged blanket.

“Next time try batting with your bum leg,” he mumbled, just loud enough so I would hear it but no one else. I pretended to mishear him, due partially to how much bigger he was than me and because I wasn’t sure if I really did mishear him. What he said next answered that.

“You know what they say about cripples?” he asked me and didn’t wait for me to respond before he answered himself. “They fell outta favour with the Lord.”

And that was it. Didn’t swing at me or throw a punch. Didn’t even say those two things with much venom, but when I got back by the other players I kept choking back tears. To make it look like I wasn’t on the brink of crying in front of everyone, I pretended to bite my tongue so I could put my palm up near my eyes until the feeling passed. No matter how I felt though, whether anger or fear or cheeky, Jesse always knew, so it was only a matter of moments before he took me to the side and asked me what happened.

“Nothing,” I said. “Tongue just hurts is all.”

“Timothy,” Jesse said. “Tell me now.”

I rolled my shoes along a patch of grass, examining the blades as they fell flat before springing back up one by one. “It was…nothing. Like I said, it’s my tongue.”

“If you don’t tell me now, I’ll make sure you do in front of Mum later,” he said. I looked up into his eyes. They were so striking – that’s the word I always use when describing what I remember about his eyes. Some days they were blue and other days they seemed silver, and they had sand-like specks that surrounded the irises in almost a perfect circle.

I knew it was no use. I mumbled my response. “Davis said…Davis said…” It became harder to keep from breaking down.

He jerked his head to where Davis stood, then looked back. “Davis said what?” he asked gently.

“He said…”

Firmer now, “Timothy. What did he say to you?”

I inhaled as fully as I could then. “He said my leg’s the way it is because God don’t like me.” I threw my head into my palms then and couldn’t hold the tears in anymore. They poured out, but I was able to keep them hushed at least to not make as much noise. It felt like minutes before I opened up my palms and eyes, but couldn’t have been more than maybe half a minute. When I did, Jesse was gone. I turned around to see where he’d gone but the shouts of the kids gave me a clue. I ran over to the rounders field to see Jesse, rounders club in hand, standing over Davis who was on the ground holding up his hands over his head to avoid getting whacked. It didn’t do much though, as Jesse beat him across the ears once, twice, three times, then against his knuckles another three times. I can’t quite remember what Davis said to Jesse from his back, but I’ll never forget his face, which was puffy eyed and full of terror. When he was done, he flung the club across the pitch and left Davis there, crying into his shirt. From that day forward, all the kids – whether they were at the rounders game with us or not – called him Damp Eyes Davis. I never was a fan of the kids calling him that, but it stuck nonetheless. Maybe that’s one of the reasons Davis was so quick to leave for Manchester as soon as he got the chance to.

Jesse.

Jesse.

I laid in the dew for a moment more. I could feel the bounce of crickets against my trousers as I stared at the tree along the ridge once again, like the tunnel to the treasure. I army-crawled toward it. When I reached the trunk, the voices were distinguishable now—loud even. I hoisted my back against the bark, which was so moist it felt spongy.

“I would’ve bopped ‘em right on the hob if he so much as gave me lip,” said a voice—a child’s voice. A boy’s voice.

“Oh, please,” said another voice—a child’s voice. Another boy’s voice. Slightly lower. “I’d have had to bail you out yet again.”

“Again?” asked the first.

“Again,” said the second.

“There can’t be a second if there was never so much as a first,” said the first.

That made a third voice, the highest pitch of the three, chuckle. My hand felt along the leather strap of my belt then. The hatchet was snug. I placed my palms against my knees, now soaked from the soil. If you could’ve checked for a pulse, you’d have never been able to tell I was alive with how restrained my breathing was. Like I was at the very bottom of the pond.

“Do you think there’s wolves about?” the third voice asked.

“Wolves?” the second said.

“Yeah,” the third repeated.

“I wouldn’t think there’d be. Do you, Blake?” asked the second.

“There might be. The forests and trees and all that look about the same as home,” said the first.

“Don’t you think we’d have heard howling by now if that were so?” the second asked. “I haven’t heard any. Have you, Shane?”

The third said, “I don’t think I have. No.”

“Yeah,” the second continued. “It’s a full moon too. Damn near. We’d have heard somethin’ if they’re here”

The fire snapped, like a locomotive tumbling to start. It was so close I saw a spark flicker by my head before fizzling out to black. I hadn’t heard a fourth voice up to that point. Only those three. Only those boys. The accent wasn’t much different from my own. Me being a Yorkie and them being from London, by the sound of it.

“It won’t matter much,” said the first voice. “If they decide to eat us, we’re chopped liver anyway.”

“I think we could take one altogether,” the second voice rang.

“Not a chance,” the first voice said.

“You wouldn’t try?” the second said.

“Oh, of course I’d try. I’d push you into his mouth so Shane and I could run away.”

They laughed. I couldn’t tell from where I was hunched over on the tree, but I swear I’d heard all three boys laughing then. Laughing loud.

The third voice said, “Maybe we haven’t heard any wolves because they respect the dead.”

There was a shuffling, then the sound of crickets spinning.

“Maybe they had Da’s of their own,” said the first.

“I feel like ours would’ve been able to fend ‘em off,” said the second.

“At least one of the wolves,” said the third.

“Three on one?” asked the first. “Oh yeah. Our Das would’ve fuckin’ buried ‘em.”

I reclined back down the trunk of the tree to a seated position once my limped side started reeling with soreness. I listened to their chatter slow to a trickle as the roar of the fire slowed to a sigh. At some point, the conversation stopped entirely, and a feathery chorus of snores took its seat. That’s when I hoisted myself upright, as my eyelids were also becoming heavy. I made my way back to the cabin, threw my hatchet and wet clothes on the floor, and fell into bed.

---

Mornings in Tyne Cot always woke up slowly. The wind seemed to rustle the tree leaves gently, poking the world awake to remind everything they were still alive. I’d heard of the memorial before Uncle Richard offered me the job. I’d heard of the rows and rows and rows of roughly cut, white headstones that dotted the sea of green. I’d heard of the guests who come pouring in to pay their respects daily, handkerchiefs in hand and hurt painted across their faces. I’d heard of the roses—red, white, and pink—that adorned the stones that stretched far, far, far. And I’d heard of the fields to the east of the memorial. The fields that stretched themselves from one treeline to another. Fields where the red poppies were packed so tightly the landscape looked as if it were nursing open wounds.

To hear and to see are two different things. Even as I speak these words to you, even as I try to configure the right words together to match the pictures in my head, I get a little angry. Not at you, not even at me really—but at the shortcomings of words, as beautiful as they might be. I’ve… never… stood so close to the border of the dark as I did in Tyne Cot. It’s as if the visitors stood right on the edge of the lamplight, where the shadows begin and we end. Hugging tightly onto a headstone that used to be flesh—their own flesh, in fact. The soil held all the world’s tears inside it. I was convinced of that much.

The morning after I went to that campfire, as the first dozen visitors came trickling in and I made my rounds with a rake and shovel and hoe in hand, my mind drifted back to it. I could smell the traces of ash and pine on the sleeves of my shirt. And I remembered how Dwight was still in Paris, and how no patron would scold me if I walked away from my duties for a few minutes. And so I did. I walked out past the rows of white, out past the muffled cries of mothers and fathers. Where they disappeared into tombs and into gust and mist. And as I did, I remember finding the spot on the hill where the firepit must have been. I kept my eyes probing on that spot for any traces of rustling. After a minute or more of shifting and re-scoping, my eyes finally found them—three boys, arm in arm, staring over the poppies of Flanders, still as the pines behind them. I could catch their eyes from where I stood.

Anyway, that was a long time ago now, but I return back to the night often. My grandson is running around the yard now. The grass is so tall it’ll scuff your ankles. He hands me a drawing of the garden I’ve built for myself—the garden that’s taken me two decades to create. The drawing is one of orange and red flowers scribbled together with crayon all over the paper. I hold it and stare at it for a long, long time as my mind continues to float. They must’ve crossed the fuckin’ channel together with how young they were. I think of them waitin’ at Liverpool Street Station or Waterloo. I think of them staying the night in Calais—dancing with jazz singers and dodging street rats. I think of them saving’ pennies—maybe stealing a few out of pockets attached to top hats and corduroy suit jackets. Pennies they all plop together on the desk at the station, and the teller’d have to crane his neck down to get a view of the boys. Maybe he cracked a smile, maybe he scoffed and sent them to the next booth over. Maybe they had to sneak on the train and on the ferry because they couldn’t afford tickets themselves. Maybe their Mas and brothers were worried sick with them gone. Maybe they forgave them when they found out what—who, I mean—they were going to see. Maybe that night I overheard was their first night away from home, ever. I don’t know. I don’t know any of it apart from that fire.

That look on their faces gazing out over the poppies where their Das must’ve fallen told me all I needed to know. It was the same one I had when I saw where my dear brother Jesse must’ve fallen during the war. Jesse. Jesse. There must’ve been dirt on his elbows, there must’ve been shock on his face, and his limbs must’ve started to get as stiff as his brother’s. As stiff as mine. Me. Jesse’s brother. The brother who couldn’t keep him safe like he always did for me.