Scraps Of Mystery
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It was the smell that first alerted me. It wasn’t a horrible stench – it didn’t make my stomach churn or anything of the sort. However, I did find myself involuntarily turning my head to catch a whiff. As soon as I noticed what it was, I felt slightly nauseous.
Then I realized just how hungry I actually was. The smell had brought on my appetite like nothing else ever could have. I hadn’t eaten in days and I was about ready to gorge myself.
I followed the smell through the house until it led me right into a room with a table covered in food: roast chicken, potatoes, vegetables, and even biscuits, cakes, and pies. There were plates stacked up with food for people too tired to eat standing, but still unable to resist the smells wafting from the kitchen.
Most of the people inside looked half-dead; some were slumped against the wall while others hovered around the table, stuffing their faces. Only a few had any energy left at all. They sat there eating quietly or stood by the fire in conversation over their food.
As I watched one man in particular, his eyes seemed to glow. He wore an expensive suit and looked quite distinguished, though his face was lined with exhaustion and pain. I thought he might be someone important, perhaps a local lord or something, so I tried my best to look smart.
But when I walked closer, I realized this man was much older than he appeared. His skin was blotchy and pocked and his hands trembled as if he’d had too much to drink. And then I caught sight of his hair. Or more accurately, I didn’t see it because it had fallen out of its usual place and onto his shoulders in clumps. I looked back at him and then down at my own hair.
The man looked at me, squinted, and shook his head. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“But you invited me,” I said.
“Yes, but—”
“Please, sir? Do you have a moment?”
He nodded. “If you must.”
I stepped forward. “This is for everyone who’s been working here since last night. You deserve it, trust me, after everything we’ve been through.”
With a weary nod, he accepted the plate and took a bite of chicken. I couldn’t help myself – I started eating. And I can tell you now that there hasn’t been one day since I came home from that mission that I haven’t craved roast chicken, potatoes, and vegetables.
Even now, the scent of roasted poultry brings memories flooding back to me. I remember the way my mouth tingled as the juices flowed between my teeth; the way they filled my stomach and made my limbs feel heavy.
It was as if my whole body knew exactly where I wanted the food to go, even if my brain didn’t. And that’s how I felt the whole time I was at this house. As if my very being knew exactly what to do and how to act. And that’s why, once again, I found myself looking around the room for anyone who looked like they needed attention.
That’s when I saw him. A thin old woman wearing an ancient-looking cloak of some sort, sitting at the far end of the table away from her fellow guests. She was staring straight ahead. I guessed she might be ill or something because her eyes looked almost completely white.
Her long silver hair was tangled and knotted, with bits of grey mixed in, and I suspected some parts of it had already come loose and fallen out. Her nose looked red and raw as if she’d been sick recently. I moved closer, trying to look sympathetic while also making sure no one else saw.
I placed my plate next to hers, took off my hat, and waited. The others in the room didn’t seem to notice me, which only confirmed the fact that they were half-asleep or dead, as the case might be.
When the woman finally turned her head to look at me, she blinked slowly. When she realized who I was, she stared for a moment without saying a word. Then she put her hand to her mouth and let out a gasp, causing her lips to tremble and her fingers to shake.
Then, when I thought I was going to cry, the old lady reached out and grabbed my arm with both hands. I was too stunned to do anything other than stare.
***
“You don’t belong here,” she said. “I’m glad to meet you, Miss…” She trailed off.
“Briar,” I said.
She nodded and smiled. “Good. Good.” She took another bite of food.
For about two hours, I talked with people in the room. Some wanted to talk, and some didn’t. One man told me his name was George and he lived somewhere up on the hills above Catterick. His wife had died three years ago, leaving him alone to run the farm he’d worked on since he was a boy.
His voice was raspy from all the cigarettes he smoked every day, but his eyes were clear enough that I could see his pain as if I was standing right behind him, watching him struggle with something. This was my job: I listened. If someone needed me, I helped them as much as possible, just as I’d promised my mum I would. That was one promise I wasn’t about to break.
After two hours, I went downstairs again, this time looking for the kitchen. There was a huge pile of dirty plates and pots and pans stacked up in the sink area, so I washed them before taking them outside, where they joined several others that were ready to go.
By then, though, the sun was coming down and the rain hadn’t quite stopped yet. With the clouds darkening the sky, it didn’t take long for me to notice a figure on the road leading out of the house.
It was the first person I’d seen in ages, and it happened to be walking towards us. In fact, it was heading toward me, which meant the man had to slow down. As he passed by the house, I caught a glimpse of his face. He looked familiar. Maybe I knew him from school or something?
The problem was that I didn’t recognize any of his features and, despite knowing he was headed my way, I couldn’t say I liked meeting new people. I mean, there are so many bad things that can happen when you talk to strangers. They can hurt you or steal your money or even kill you.
My parents always taught me to be careful, which is why I was more nervous about talking to this man than I was when we were ambushed by the Germans and had to shoot their soldiers.
The stranger kept passing by, heading north. Once again, I thought about turning back to go inside. But it seemed wrong somehow, even if he didn’t know I was there. The man strolled with his arms tucked close to his chest. It was hard for me to get a good look at him through the rain.
After all, it wasn’t raining much, but the drops were still big and heavy, and the wind coming across the field made the water sting my skin. I wondered if he knew that the enemy was out there, waiting to kill everyone. Did he realize there was nothing anyone could do to stop the Nazis?
But the stranger never looked around, and when I checked my watch, I saw that I had less than five minutes until I would have to leave. When I started running after him, my legs were tired and heavy because of the mud. But I managed to catch up to him before he turned the corner. We walked together for a while, chatting briefly about the weather.
Once the rain started coming down harder, we decided to call it a day. I told him I hoped he would come back next Sunday and he asked whether he should bring a friend. I nodded, but my smile faded when I realized he wouldn’t be able to find this place, not with the German planes overhead all the time, bombarding us, making our home unsafe.
Even before the war, most of the houses along that road were empty. The farmers had sold the land to raise extra funds for their families to live on, which left only a handful of people living in the village—most of them elderly.
“Can you tell me your name?” the man asked when we finally stood under the shelter of the porch.
“Briar,” I said.
He grinned in return. “That’s a lovely name.”
With his hand, he gently touched mine. “Mine’s Sam. Sam Wren.”
I shook my head, thinking it might be easier to forget about what happened if I tried to remember something else instead. I closed my eyes, searching my memories for some happy times, but my mind drew a blank.
All I could recall was my mum and Dad, the two of them holding hands and walking on the street, their smiles as bright and warm as the summer sun. And then they were gone forever.
The last time my dad came to visit us, he brought me a toy soldier from one of those games that come in a box and are made of metal or plastic. A few days later, he was killed in a raid on a nearby town. Since then, no one has dared to enter the house, and my mother is too scared to walk alone past the front gate, where the weeds grew tall and thick.
When I opened my eyes, I noticed Sam was watching me intently. At the same time, a gust of wind blew through the door behind us, causing the leaves outside to rustle.
“Are you sure it’s okay to be here?” he asked quietly, staring down at the ground.
My fingers trembled as I reached towards the pocket of my jeans. If I pulled the pistol out now and pointed it right at Sam, there was a chance he might run away. But it was better to let him live. Then maybe we could both go back inside and wait until the Germans attacked again. No one would have to die today.
Sam’s gaze shifted from mine to the gun. “You shouldn’t carry a weapon like that if you’re scared someone will take it from you,” he said calmly, taking a step closer.
If anything happened to him, then I wouldn’t have anyone else to talk to. I would be stuck inside all day, wondering if my parents were okay. And how could I explain that to Sam if anything terrible went down? Would he understand my fear if something awful were to happen and I had no one left to protect me?
I didn’t want to hurt Sam. Not after he invited me into his home, and he seemed so eager to share his secrets with me. He wanted to tell me about his life, and I needed to listen. My heart was racing, and my palms were sweaty. I took another deep breath as I held the gun tighter in my hand. Then, just in case Sam decided to attack me, I put three more bullets into my belt loop.
As Sam continued talking about his family—his wife and son and daughter-in-law, who had recently given birth to a baby girl—the sun came out, shining its rays onto our shoulders. It was an odd coincidence that he was telling me all this when the sun appeared above the clouds because my father was one of the people who worked on this farm. Before he died.
When he finished his story, I thanked him for sharing everything he knew about the Wrens and wished he would stop by again next weekend, even though we hadn’t really talked much.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, looking down at my gun. “Maybe you can try to keep me company next Sunday.”
I glanced out into the woods, which had become quieter since the rain stopped falling, then nodded and walked across the muddy yard towards the barn. Sam followed me. We climbed over the fallen logs and entered the darkness of the old building, leaving the sunshine behind us. Once inside, I shut the door, which made me feel slightly safer.
Then I heard him laugh, a deep chuckle that sounded so genuine and full of happiness, it made me think he was different than any other man alive.
I turned to see Sam was already sitting on a bale of hay. When I joined him, he patted the empty space beside him.
For a moment, I considered turning around and running back home, but Sam’s eyes were so warm and caring, and I had never felt comfortable being alone, especially not when I knew the Nazis were hunting me.
So instead of backing down, I sat down beside him and smiled at him, thinking that the first person ever to do so must have been my mother. She did the same thing for me when she used to watch me from the window, waiting until I had gone to bed before returning home herself.
“You don’t know where you belong,” Sam said softly, stroking my cheek and smiling at me. “Not yet. Maybe in time, you’ll learn where your place in the world is.”
I stared at him as he ran his fingertips over my face. His touch wasn’t gentle. The tips of his fingers scratched against my skin. And they felt hot as the sun burned in my eyes.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer, and as I looked at his lips, my hands moved to cover them. They were soft and plump like a woman’s, and they parted gently under my palms.
But Sam didn’t kiss me. Instead, he grabbed the pistol from my hand, and while holding it in front of him, he pressed the barrel against my chest. The silence between us filled the room for a moment, and then Sam lowered the gun.
“I should have known it would come back to me someday,” he said, staring down at me. “I should have known you would find it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. As soon as I spoke, he placed the pistol back in my hand.
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer to me, speaking in a low voice. “You look familiar,” he said. “And you’re the only one who has ever owned this gun.”
The End