I first saw the boy on the train station.
His cheeks were youth-round instead of hollowed. His hands were dirty- not with dirt, no- with paint. And his eyes- sparkling with naivety. Untouched by the war racking across our country.
Of course I was intrigued- who wouldn’t be? So I approached him, and asked him where he was from.
‘Oh, I’m from over they mountains- way up in the keld. Ye wouldn’t like it there, ey can tell.’ His accent was all funny-like. Like a song. This ridiculous boy was singing his way through life while men were coughing their lungs out on the front lines. And who was he to tell me what I would and wouldn’t like?
Irritated, I found myself replying, ‘Yeah, well. I hear it gets cold in the trenches. ’Specially at night.’ I was aggravated even more at the look of confusion he gave me, ‘Y’know there’s a war going on, boy? Or does the news not travel that far up they mountains?’
At this stage he cleared his throat awkwardly and muttered something along the lines of ‘political artist’.
‘Yeah I figured you were an artist, by the state o’ your hands.’ I held out my hands then, to prove a point, you know? I wanted him to see the calluses and the rough edges, wanted to make him uncomfortable with his filed nails and soft skin. ‘I might’nt be an artist, kid, but let me give you some advice: Unless you wan’a be caught in between bullets and buildings, you best avoid this train and everyone on it, and hightail it back to the high grounds. Y’hear?’
Looking back, I’m not sure why I hated him so. I ‘spose it’s ‘cus he reminded me of our aristocracy, and I really, strongly, disliked the aristocracy.
‘Well thank ye for they advice, ser, but ey ahm stayin’ ryght here.’
Suddenly he was very lively, and that caught me off guard. I was used ta people backing down when I’d talk to ‘em like that. Not this one, though. Not this one.
‘Yer right, ser. News neaver reaches they mountains, and ey wood lyke very much to change that.’ He pulled out this-book.
Where I was from, nobody could afford a book, ‘less it was for countin’ the dead.
‘Yesee, ser,’ He showed me his drawings, many people drawn in all sorts o’ funny ways, with big noses and ears or huge teeth. I realised they were all the higher-ups of countries more important than ours. ‘Ey’m a political artist. Ey see things that upset me, upsets the peeple, and ey do something about it they only way I know how- through my art, ser. It might not seem like much, ser, but many artists have clawed their way teh glory by leading teh people. Many times we artists have changed teh tides of history.’
I couldn’t argue wi’ that. ‘Twas true. But there was one question I wanted to ask, ‘So the war upsets you, then? And what do you wanna do about it? Get on that train to the war, to your death?’ I started to laugh, but then I saw the look in the boy’s green eyes. I knew that look, all right. It was a deadly cocktail o’ determination and foolishness, the one all the new recruits wear, when they’re still boys in big man clothes and guns. Before the war gets to ‘em. Then, right then, I made a decision that changed my life.
I didn’t want this kid to die.
I didn’t want to watch another young man’s life leave his eyes over a backdrop of months and months of too-hard a life. Too-cold a night. Too-long a wait, too-deep a wound.
But I did want him to get the story out, y’know?
So I said, ‘Alright, lad, you just wait a moment there. I can see you’re passionate about this, and I’m willing to help, alright?’ He started to nod excitedly, but I held up my hand, ‘On one condition: You stay here. Y’hear? Right here, safe near they mountains, all right? You won’t do anyone any good by being dead.’
‘But ser- how would ey get the info ey need for teh comics? If ey’m not to accompany ye, ser.’
I sighed then, gritted my teeth then, also said then, ‘Well lad, as I said, I might’nt be an artist, but I will write to you about the things that happen, ‘ey?’ As soon as I said that, I was kicking myself: where in the seven Hells would I find a book before the train left? And yet, despite my better judgement, I continued, ‘I’ll even send photos of the higher-ups, a’ight? But you need to keep ya hands soft n’ supple for those drawings o’ yours.’
He looked down and bit his lip. Pondered. Artists always seem to ponder. A train’s wail interrupted his ponderin’. He looked up an’ seemed to realise that I had to get a move on soon.
‘Alryght, ser. If ye say so, ser.’ He began to nod, his mop of hair blowin’ all over the place. ‘But ey need details, ser. Could ye keep a journal for me, ser? ey think ey have a journal- ryght-,’ He began rummulin’ around in his pack, lookin’ a right fluster, ‘Ah yes, heare ye go, ser!’ A book, leather, the fancy stuff, was thrust into my hands. ‘Ohhhh, and a pen of course, ser.’
Things started movin’ too fast fo’ me. What had I gotten myself inta? But the rail waited for no one, as I was soon reminded. ‘Listen, lad, what do ya answer to? And where can I post these letters o’ yours?’
‘Answer to- oh! Ye mean me name, ser? Ye can call me Red. Ey cannae go by me real name, ser, you see, some peeple would very much lyke to see me dead. For me art, I mean. And ye, ser?’
‘M’names Brynce. Now, the letters..?’
‘Oh yes, ah, mayl it to this station, ser.’
I nodded, then the train blew its final whistle and I was on my way. I had ta push through hundreds o’ doomed souls to get to m’seat.
My doubt followed me into the train, laughed at me as I watched Red lift a hand in farewell.
................
I wrote the first letter as cold air from the mountains bit m’face. The ass sittin’ window-side had decided to open it and hand us over to mother nature’s wrath.
I figured if the kid wanted details- what better place to start than the o’er crowded, under-hoped devils-brew o’ passengers?
M’handwritin’ wasn’t all that good- ma never knew how and pa only knew as much as his father before ‘im. O’course I didn’t have ta do this ridiculous job. But I consider myself a man o’ my word and I’d be damned if bad hand-speak stopped me. So I lifted my pen:
‘You should see this place, lad. Half a pot of deaf and we havnt even reached half way. Theres a man two ails iles rows in front of me who is suffering from gan-greene. I dont think he will be cleared for the forse. You see, lad, this train is paked with eight hunderd peeple, maybe more. If I had to gues, Id gues that maybe hunderd will make it bak. If the bullets dont get em, sickness or cold will. Many of us die on the way there. The meals arnt that good (last year old Scurvey, hes dead now bless his soul, found maggots in his chiken. You would think the state feeds its defenders better.) and when asses ases like the one nects to me open windos, many catch colds and we dont have them fancy doktors. They eiver die in the field or their bunks.
Its a hard life, lad.’
...................
We were on the train for two weeks bef’or we reached camp.
We stopped in between, o’course. At the train stations we’d often hear small groups o’ people pluckin’ string, trying to earn a livin’. If I had silver wi’ me, I’d always drop some in the scruffy payin’-bowl of a hat. Usually the poor sods were old, or amputees, too frail to fight no more. They were the ones keepin’ the children and women alive. I don’t mean to sound like an artist, but there is something to be said for the human soul, y’know? Their music, though they grated our ears, reminded us of better times. They were fightin’ every bit as hard as us.
I wrote to Red about ‘em, too. I even sent a fine photo along, where the light caught the plucker just right, to make him look all sage-like, y’know? O’course I would only be able to post the letters when the man with the hat came along and collected all our writin’. Most wrote to their lady loves, but I hadn’t a wife (never really was the sort for that type o’ thing), so everyone thought it strange when my stack was the biggest of them all.
When they’d ask me about it, I’d just say that I was writin’ to the mountains.
...........
There was war and there was death in the day, and sometimes at night, but in the quiet moments wi’ only lady moon lookin’ down on me, there were letters, too.
I wrote many letters in the first month, but there is one I really remember:
‘One of the generels made himself half a ass this morning. He burst into our tent and began shouting blabberin about the newest orders he had for us, shakin and smakin recruits recrouts recroots left and riht, and then he went and sat on the nearest bed. He sat on young Snips bleedin foot and stayned himself something teribel. Of course, Snips screems were also embarasin, but it was ironic seein blood on the generels uniform. Not al generels are alike, but this one is a punchline among the troops: He doesnt like getting his boots dirty. Seems like good art mati material to me. His name is Shmuck, if that wil help.’
I sent a photo along.
.............
It was about two months in when I got the first letter from Red. I was a bit embarrassed, seein’ his pretty words and fine writin’. Next to his, mine looked like the devil himself crawled out from hell and scratched the words into the paper. He added a few pieces of art o’ his, one called ‘Shmuck in the Muck!’It showed general Shmuck with bulging eyes, tongue out in disgust as he stares at his own stained behind (Red clad him in a fancy-like tuxedo, a sore thumb ‘gainst the backdrop o’ army men). I remember how loud I laughed, and the picture got passed around in the camp, spreadin’ joy where it travelled. Soul o’ the people, indeed. While Red’s art made its rounds, I read the letter:
‘Dear Mr. Brynce,
What a pleasure it is to hear from you, sir! Have you ever thought of becoming a journalist after the war? It would suit your manner of writing! I found myself crying from laughter at your letters (somehow you manage to make tragic events humorous, it is truly a skill, sir) and I cannot believe the things you tell me.
I never knew the trains and train stations were a source of so much activity. I am sorry to hear about the awful condition you’re forced to live under, sir. I assure you I will get the news out. It is my sacred duty as an artist. I began reading some of your letters to the people walking by on the street. I hope you don’t mind, sir. Sometimes people just like hearing it from the source, you understand. There’s resistance brewing up here, and I am very excited what it will amount to.
Tell me: do the troops have any special traditions amongst them? (other than tormenting general Shmuck, of course). And what is it like on the actual battlefield, sir? I appreciated the things you write to me about camp, but people also need to know about the gruesome things. You needn’t worry about offending my delicate sensibilities, sir.
I hope you enjoy the art attached, sir, and that it brings you as much joy as your words did to me.
Exited to hear from you again,
Red :)’
I did’n realise there was a format to follow. Did’n seem like he minded, anyhow. And the two dots an’ line? That was his tryin’ at a smile. I felt almost sorry for the lad, him bein’ as innocent as he was. So instead, I told ‘im about a tradition Ol’ Scurvey started. Everytime some poor soul had a tooth fall out (Ol’ Scurvey earned his name by bein toothless, y’see) the recruit next to the sod woulda clapped him on the shoulder and offer ‘im a drink. (Ol’Scurvey had a famous love affair with the bottom of the bottle). If the tooth were to be found, how’er, the owner would hollow it an’ string it round his neck.
To this, Red replied with a picture of Ol’ Scurvey, drawn to look like a wise-man, laughin’ with liquor in his one hand and a string o’ teeth in the other. This, too, made its rounds round camp and I stuck it to the inside of the book. By then the cover o’ the journal was worn and a dirty brown, and the pages were turnin’ yellow.
Lookin’ back, I see now that I had reluctance as to tellin’ Red all the bad things. And yet, as the war started to worsen I did write to him about the blood n’ limbs an’ sickness.
I wrote to him about Wetlung.
...............
‘Troops are droppin like flys, lad.
We call it Wetlung. We get rounds of it after big rains or long nights in damp ground.
It starts as a cauth caught tikle in the froat, with the troops haking their lungs out. Then, their skin starts to palor. A sickly blu. They shake and yellow dots start to show on their forheads. When their eyes start turning red, thats when you know theyre a lost cause, lad. Usually after the red eyes they last two or three days, then mother nature claims another.
I don’t know if I’ll catch it, and if I do I dont know if I’ll make it. Like I said lad, we don’t have docters here.
But, I’ve been luky these last few years, and I’m hoping my luk will last this seeson round.’
............
But fate is cruel mistress, and soon she sank her claws into me.
............
‘Red, I think I’m coming down with the Wetlung. My froats been feeling all scratch-like for a week now, and it hasn’t gotten better. I havnt started shaking yet.
Poor Snips been sent home. Before he left he gave me a salve his ma used to use on him as a lad. Heres to hoping it will work.
Have you got anymore pictures to send along? Moral has goten low around here.’
...............
‘The shakings started, lad. Im afraid you will not get letters for a while. Thnk thank you for the last picture, it made a few of the others laugh. Those who could. How is the reco revu revolution like up in ‘they mountains’? Hopefuly it is going better than the war. Its getting hard to write now Red. You neednt wory, with any luk Ill be out of it in another week.’
.............
Truth be told, I don’t remember much after that last letter. Fever got to me bad and I was all a shakin’ for a long time. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat and I was always thirsty as a beggar. For three whole weeks, I thought I was dyin’. I probably was.
When I woke from the stupor, I found a stack o’ Red’s letters sittin’ on my bedside. I didn’t even realise he wrote ta me.
‘Dear Mr. Brynce,
I don’t know whether you’ll be able to read these, but I’ve decided to write to you anyway.
There’s something amazing happening here, sir. The people have started gathering in the town hall every Wednesday, when your letters arrive, just to listen. (I didn’t read the ones where you said you’re sick, sir, don’t worry, I know a man has his pride.)
Anyways, they have started reaching out to the town where I met you, sir! For the first time in near twenty years the people have started talking to each other again (apparently the feud started when the towns were on opposite sides of a property claim). They’ve started packing care packages to send to the war effort. With any luck you’ll get them, sir, not the generals.
I’ll continue to update you on what happens.
Get well soon,
Red :)’
.....
‘Dear Mr. Brynce,
I haven’t gotten any new letters, so I’m assuming you’re still sick. But that’s all right.
Something happened today that I thought you would enjoy, sir:
Basically, there were government officials here to collect the first load of care packages (as many as the people could afford, of course.) And the ‘pluckers’ as you call them, were there, singing songs and riling the crowd. Then one of them saw one of the officials raiding a care package, taking out the best.
The plucker poked his friend in the ribs and soon their tune changed to:
‘Oh governments,
Oh scoundrels,
Chase them out, chase them out
Send them runnin’ by the handfuls.
Over and over they sang this little verse, and then the people were joining in, and we could probably be heard way up in the mountains.
I’ve never seen an official look that scared, or drive away so quickly.
But it made me realise, sir: we’re really doing something big here. You and me and our letters.
The world is spinning, sir. And you and I are at the centre of it.
Red :)’
.....
‘Dear Mr. Brynce,
I hope this letter finds you well, sir, and that you have been merrily too busy to write, not too sick.
When I get sick, I like to think of home.
I didn’t always live in ‘they mountains’, you know, I actually grew up in your town, Mistrel, in the little old house at the end of Wester street. When the coal mine dried up when I was about ten, we moved into a lake-house up in Foral.
In Mistrel, I always remember ma baking sourdough bread and butter cookies, or stewing chicken for my sore throat. And she sung, sir, like a nightingale. In Foral, when I was bedridden, my father would build me a snowman outside my window. The thing gave me nightmares at night, but it was the thought that counted, I guess.
Things were better then.
What are your memories of home?
Red’
.......
You coulda smacked me with a wet salmon and I woulda been less surprised. The people were finally startin’ to act as only hungry, lonely people could. And the fact that my letters, crab-written as they were, were bein’ read to the masses? Never did I imagine that day on the train station, that this young lad would’ve changed my life so.
Along with the second letter Red sent along a picture o’ his depicting the higher ups kicken’ up half a dust storm as they drove away, with a crowd o’ people towerin’ over the fools, fists and voices raised to the heavens.
I stuck that one in the back of the journal, which had been growing thinner and thinner.
.......
Rain was a-pourin’, mud a-splattering and troops a-coughing the day the care packages arrived. We were a good six months into the war. We could’ve been handed blocks o’ solid gold by the way the men were receiving ‘em. The contents were nothin’ special, not to the higher ups who had warm beds and medicine. To us however...
I remember mine like I remember my mother’s name:
• A jar of inlaid peaches (‘something sweet for bitter times’ it had written on the front)
• A bar of soap
• Bandages in a pocket-sized cloth (comes in handy on the field)
• A thread- thin blanket (smelled strangely of home, probably second-hand)
• A few pages (most o’ the men’s had run out by then. I had the journal, so I gave mine to Quin, who had two kids at home. Today his family sets one less plate at the dinner table.)
One lucky man had gotten a pocket knife, cut all professional-like, y’know? One of the richer families probably sent it along, or its previous owner had no more use for it, if you catch my meaning. Ethan got new socks (small luxuries, especially for one as cursed with body odour as he.) Lars was gifted these hard-candies the elderly always seem ta’ carry, and broke down right there.
I had never seen so many grown men cry at once.
......
And so the war dragged on.
Red and I continued exchanging letters, and in them we found a growing companionship.
I told him about my childhood in Mistrel, how I grew up on a horse’s back and beneath the cool waters of Eyesore Lake. I told him how my mother mended clothes for a living and how my father seemed to drink for his. I wrote to him about the war, my own stories and others (by then the others knew about Red and were eager to share their own stories.). My camera broke along the way, so I couldn’t send anymore pictures along, but he didn’t seem to mind. He told me about the political changes and such (a few generals were docked for corruption, can you believe?) and how Foral and Mistrel have started layin’ plans for a new railroad once this war is over. Red and I’s story was on every headline, making us feel all martyr-like. The pluckers wrote songs o’ revolt and of Red and Brynce. We received more and more packages and better medical supplies as word spread wider. Things were finally startin’ to look up.
..........
One year became two and two became three, and in the third year somethin’ terrible befell me. Lady Fate was back for more, and that time I truly was in trouble.
I was fightin’ what was supposed one o’ the final fights, when a bullet caught my leg. It wasn’t the first time I’d been shot, I recognised the pain, and recognised that I would survive it. So I did what I had to, and then removed it later while takin’ cover behind a bush. I didn’t clean it, and that was my fatal mistake. It was fine for about three days, then it started to turn all purple like, y’know? My whole leg, it looked unnatural. And then the smell started. Still I did nothing. We were so close, I just wanted to get this horrid business over with. I had gotten lazy as an old mutt. The medicals only noticed when I fainted during one o’ our trips between camps.
Apparently, this old mutt had gone into shock.
Next thing I knew, I was on a train back home with one leg less. It seemed eerie, the emptiness. I could still feel the limb all phantom-like. And I remember I hated myself for feeling relief. I was away. I was going back home, and even the cold air bitin’ my face didn’t chill the warmth building in my chest at the thought of seeing Eyesore lake again.
......
When the train pulled into station, I could hear the pluckers singing their soul-songs.
I had waited for everyone to clear off before I struggled my way out with my cane (a man has his pride, y’know). All around me, I had heard families reuniting, people greeting loved ones, children running to their parents.
And to my surprise, there was someone waiting for me too.
Red had lost most o’ his baby fat, and his eyes had the tell-tale dark circles underneath of a working man. His curls were kept this time, not flyin’ all over the place like last. His hands were still full of paint, and eyes just as bright when they met mine.
‘Mr. Brynce, ser! Welcome home!’
‘Red, always a pleasure.’ I had stuck out my hand all formal-like, but the lad grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug.
‘Ye’ve become something of a poblic figure here, ser. Best get ye home before ye get flooded, ser.’ He said when we broke away. I had nodded to him, I had a few letters I was asked to deliver by the rest of the men, but that could’ve waited to the next day. He lead me out of the station, and I pretended not to notice that he slowed his pace like a gentleman for me and my limp. We were turning left at Ochre street when I realised we were going the wrong way.
‘Red, my house is that way, lad.’
‘Ey know that ser, but what better than a home-cooked meal to welcome ye home? Me mother offered to cook, ser, said she wants to meet ye. Ey know yer tyred ser, but ey’ve neaver known a better cure for weariness than me ma’s cooking.’
Truth be told, I wasn’t in the best of moods, then. But I agreed, because it had been three years since my last cooked meal, and, not to sound like an artist, but there was a bone-deep yearning for home in my bones, and home is found in company. Turns out Red earned enough to buy himself a house in Foral, and his mother had come down ‘specially for me.
The evening passed slowly, pleasantly and flowin’ with conversation. Maria’s food was something of renown, to admit.
When the dinner was over, I excused myself and made my way back to my hovel, tasting salt on the sea-breeze. I passed the old coal mine, the lonely skeletons of houses who, when the wind blew just right, cried like sinners in hell.
That night, surrounded by familiar smells and sounds and the ocean batterin’ the shore, I slept soundly for the first time since the war started.
......
Months passed slowly after, and in my third month back home, while I was down at the docks doin’ odd jobs on my stump leg (painted by Red, of course), the news reached us that the war has ended. We had won.
We all rushed to the newspaper stand next to the station, covered in fish guts and oil as we were. I had seen Snips there, laughing and kissing his wife, and I saw a red mop of curls come running from Ochre street. I had never witnessed these people that happy, strangers embracing strangers and all of them singing.
Now, we weren’t no choir, but critics be damned.
That night, the pub ran free drinks and the pluckers played lively-like tunes, people hoppin’ and dancin’ in the street. (the alcohol, I think, definitely worked its wonders on the shy ones in our community.).
......
And so all was calm for a few more weeks, in-between all the excitement of loved ones come home. The rail road between Foral and Mistrel was being laid down.
Red had received news that his art was being compiled and published alongside an author who wrote a small bit about the war and about us. I was proud of the lad, and of course I attended the reading.
Instead of in our small bookstore, he had decided to host it outside, near the station. I was sittin right next to Maria, in the front row.
Red had been sitting in front of twenty-or-so seats, dressed up and lookin’ all business-like, and had begun reading out of the first page of his book.
That’s when we had heard that awful sound. Like a thunderclap times a hundred, sharp and filled with anger. It took us a moment to realise what had happened. We split like the ocean at Moses’ will, one half turning to Red laying on the floor, and the other to the deathly metal, still smoking. I dived to Red, and the others tackled the man.
The boy was laying in a halo of red, clotting his curls and pooling around his youth-round eyes. He was silent and calm, lips still open as if he was still busy reading. A round hole had made its home in his forehead.
Maria wailed against me. Clutching and crying ‘Darling bey, my sweet, sweet darling bey.’ I couldn’t do anything but hold her, then.
Behind us, pandemonium ensued as the police struggled to break the crowd away from the man they were trying to lynch.
But to Maria and me, the world only existed in Red’s porcelain face being taken away on a piece of white cloth, red and blue sirens singing his way to heaven.
.....
His funeral was the biggest this town has ever had, then or since, and the pastor looked especially grim as Red was lowered into the ground.
The people sang once again, mournful and low voices trilling the air like a plucker trills his strings. Even the ocean seemed to mourn, still and solemn as it was.
Maria’s eyes had taken a watery shine that had never left since then. I try and visit her once a week, now.
The man who killed Red was revealed to be General Shmuck, one of the first to be sacked due to Red and I unearthing his corruption. He planned to kill me, too, but his gun had jammed.
It should have been me.
It has been many years since I met Red, and now I am an old man, trying to convince himself that the lad’s death is not on his conscience. Despite it all, death and war still got to him, and there was nothing I could do to prevent that, however hard I tried.
His name is commonly spoken here, every young one raised with stories of ‘artist Red’.
He lives on, in both Foral and Mistrel. I see it in the rail track, in the laminated newspapers plastered to each bookstore’s window, hear it in the songs the pluckers still sing. I feel him in the breeze coming down from ‘they mountains’.
May history never forget the tides he stirred here.
I still have his letters, and the journal. The cover is worn and battered as an old sailor’s hands, and the pictures frayed at the edges.
Not to sound like an artist, but, sometimes, on cold nights, winds come down from ‘they mountains’ and sound like a sing-song voice, urging revolution and change where it blows.
-End-