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From the world of The Mud Witch of Verdun September 1918, Northern France The train’s brakes screeched. Collette jerked in her seat as the landscape out the window stilled. She sighed. Another delay. A toddler started to fuss. A few women murmured to each other. “What now?” a man muttered, his voice slurred with drink at ten a.m. Privately, she agreed. The car was overcrowded, but then again they all were. This was the boat train, and they needed to get to Le Havre to make the next Channel crossing. The war was winding down; everyone knew it. After four bloody years, the Americans had waltzed in with their fresh troops and, more importantly, shipments of food and guns. It was only a matter of time. These people had started the great reshuffling of humans that always happened after the end of a great conflict. Collette’s trip, though, wasn’t a reshuffling. It was a redeployment. She’d spent the last few months in a Parisian hospital, helping with victims of mustard gas attacks. The Sirenes had realized quickly that there was no conventional treatment for the men’s lung damage. But with their mudwork, many of the soldiers had made full recoveries. Their presence had truly been the difference between life and death. But the Tantines had recalled her to Ile de Maman for new orders. Secret orders, although anyone with half a brain would have guessed them. Go to America and find out where the metalworkers were hiding out. Addy’s Sirenes would need new orders soon and it was Collette’s job to gather information on what those orders should be. But to do that, she needed to get to Southampton for the Atlantic crossing. And to do that, she needed to get to Le Havre for the Channel crossing. And to do that, she needed this train to move. She popped out of her seat, determined to get answers. The next moment, a conductor opened the door. “Our apologies. There will be a slight delay. A truck has stalled on the line and we are working to remove it. If there are any able-bodied men in this car, we would happily take their help.” A soldier stood up, one of his sleeves pinned up where he’d lost an arm. The conductor hesitated before saying, “Sir, we’re thankful for your offer, but…” “I can push as hard with this arm as most men can with two. Do you want to get moving or not?” The drunken man piped up. “I know I do!” and everyone chorused their agreement. Together, the conductor and soldier left, just as the fussing toddler started crying. Collette glanced over cautiously, not wanting to embarrass the mother. She needn’t have worried. The little boy’s mother scarcely noticed him. Her eyes were fixed out the window, even as her child pulled at her hair and his own ears. Two women from the seat behind Collette continued their whispering. “Can’t she shut him up?” one of them said. Her hair was blond, fashionably styled, and she wore a handsome traveling suit. “It’s bad enough, being stuck here, but now there’s this. And look at the state of them both! I’ll have to use a nit comb tonight just in case.” The brunette was equally well dressed and equally offended by the child’s cries. Collette shot them both a glance, shutting them up. They weren’t wrong. The woman’s clothes were grimy and patched and the boy was dressed too warmly for the train. His cheeks were flushed and he kept rubbing his face against his mother’s shoulder, clearly in pain. Well, that she could fix. Not the train, not the amputated arm, not the overcrowding. But this one thing. Yes, she could do that. “Good morning,” she said to the distracted mother, crouching on the floor in front of her. “I’m a nurse. Can I take him off your hands for a moment? Give you a break?” The woman nodded absently. Collette lifted the boy and looked around for a seat. The drunken man, showing compassion, staggered across the aisle to take Collette’s now-empty spot. She smiled her thanks and began to examine the child. He was no more than two, small and undernourished. No different than many children of war. No fever, although he was pulling on his ears. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a gold compact that she kept filled with mud. His face was so dirty that her signals for health and painlessness blended in. His cries calmed to whimpers. “Poor little duckling,” she whispered. “Were your teeth hurting you? What else is going on?” Mindful of those clucking ladies, she checked for nits. There weren’t any. But he was clearly overheated. She took his sweater off, rubbing her thumb over the intricate hand-knitted design. This was no shop-made garment. It was dirty, but made with love. Collette’s eyes flicked to the mother, who was still staring blankly out the window. She pulled out a currant bun and handed it over. He gnawed on it eagerly. “Ma’am?” she said to the woman behind her, the blonde from earlier. “Could you please take this money and run to the café car and get me two pastries, a cup of tea, and a glass of milk?” The woman sneered, “Do I look like a serving girl to you?” “You look like a snob to me,” Collette shot back. The door to the train car opened again and a woman with a tea trolley entered. “Fine,” Collette said, hopping up with the boy. “I will do it myself.” Food obtained, Collette set the boy next to his mother. He was happily chewing on a croissant. Satisfied with his state, she reached out to the woman. “Ma’am? I have some tea here. And food, if you want it?” The mother looked back, still absently, but one sip of the tea and life seemed to come back to her. “I can get you more food if you’re still hungry after that. It seems as though you’ve had a long journey.” The mother ate furiously, as if finally aware of her own needs as well as her surroundings. “You’ve no idea,” she said. “This is my fourth delay in two days. I was staying down south, where it was safer, because of little Martin. I took a train to Paris, but when I got there…and then we left to get the ferry…I don’t remember when I last slept.” “What happened in Paris?” Collette asked. She handed over a second croissant. “My…I married a Britishman. We met when he was on leave in La Rochelle. And I fell pregnant, but please, don’t judge, he married me as soon as we knew. I went all the way to Lyon because he could only get a day off for it. Then I went to live with my uncle, to keep house for him, with the baby. But two days ago, I got word. Harry, he was hurt. Gas, they said. He was in Paris. I rushed. We rushed. My uncle, he couldn’t watch Martin. He’s not unwell, but Martin is very active. So I took him and we went to Paris.” She started to cry, and Collette realized that all other conversation in the train car had ceased. All ears were on this poor woman and her all-too-typical story. “But when I got there, they said that the telegram must have been delayed, because Harry had been and gone two weeks ago. They said he had been shipped back to his family in England, but couldn’t tell me in what state. I’m trying to get to him. Or to his family. They live in Guildford, in a place called Surrey? Surely they must know where he is. If he’s well, or…” She shook her head, overcome. Collette said, “May I ask what hospital he was in? In Paris? And his last name?” “His name was Harry Winters. It was Base Hospital No. 3.” Collette laughed out loud. “My sweet girl! I know your Harry. I knew you looked familiar to me! I was stationed there until last week. You must be Valerie. He showed me your picture a hundred times. And little Martin’s. Although he looks much different now that he’s got hair, doesn’t he?” Valerie gripped Collette’s hand hard. Crushingly hard. “You saw him? You talked to him? So he is—” “He was in a terrible state when he came in, but with treatment, he was healing well. You should know he also lost two fingers on his hand. I don’t remember which one, sorry.” Valerie began to laugh and despite her red, exhausted eyes, her dirty face, and her unkempt hair, in that moment, she looked like Venus herself. “Two fingers? Two fingers! So I must learn to open jars for myself. That I can do. And he’s really alive?” “Valerie, he’s alive.” Sobs burst from her as explosively as the laugh had. Collette couldn’t imagine what this mother had been through over the last day. “You poor thing,” Collette said. “You’ve been through an ordeal, haven’t you.” Valerie just cried. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.” Her face shot up. “But I haven’t thought it through. I didn’t figure out anything past the ferry. I don’t speak English. I don’t even know where Surrey is. I have an address, but how will I find them?” From behind Collette’s shoulder, a woman’s voice said, “I will take you. I know the area, and I believe between the two of us, we can find Mr. Harry Winters of Guildford, Surrey.” “Are you sure? It must be out of your way?” Valerie said through tears. The blonde woman, no longer sneering, met Collette’s eyes. “It’s the least I can do.” The End
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