The following is a short Christmas story I wrote in 2015 as part of a collection of stories called The Village. The imaginary village of Wickshaw is a Pollyanna type of place I go to when I need to feel good about the world.
Contra Mundum - Against the World
The village was waking
the chimneys began
to breath their warmth
as mothers and fathers
roused their children –
the children slowly
coming alive to discover
what St Nicholas
had done throughout the night.
The air was silent
as it always is when
winter blankets the
ground in white
and frost the trees
with silver.
Thaddeus had awoken before dawn.
He had not slept a full night
in over ten years.
The pain in his legs
always preceding the cockerel.
If it wasn’t the pain
it was the dreams –
Thundering and booming dreams
filled with smoke
and screams and always dying.
Hope was a scarce commodity
and Thaddeus had little.
But whatever shred was left
was enough for him to rouse
himself each morning.
The church bells were tolling
the first Christmas chimes
as Thaddeus closed the door.
He set out for St Luke’s
while the rest of Wickshaw
was still having breakfast
or opening their Christmas stockings.
Getting everywhere took longer
for him than most people.
Even the old ladies passed him
on the path –
Down Abbey Lane and round
the bend on Old Forge Road
and up towards the church.
Slow and dragging footsteps
were quite normal now.
The bullet from the enemy
had taken away his kneecap
and any chance of ever bending
his leg again or
walking without a cane.
He had cursed his foe
many a time
and even cursed his God.
But for King and country
and mother’s love
he never said ill words.
The snow and cold
made it even worse,
but stubborn determination
moved him forward.
The path through the Village Green
was shortest and there were benches
for him to rest
but he sought to make it
to the furthest seat
to spend an hour or so
before the Carol service.
The memorial sat in prominence
towards the north end of the green
Wickshaw had lost its share
to that Great and Terrible War.
More than its share one might say.
And the village was still
recovering
remembering
re-becoming.
To save our country I must go
to far off fields of untold woe
Thaddeus sat and studied
the monolith before him
pulling his coat closer
around him
breathing the crisp air
through his scarf.
The marble came from the quarry
Alabaster white
with rivers of rose and tawny veins.
it shone bright on summer days
and mirrored splendid in springtime rains.
But this winter morning ethereal breath sparkled
to match the snow below.
While a very many did contribute
to the building of the testament
most the resource in fact came
from Lord Clarke and Mrs Bramley
‘tho they were both discrete
and gracious to hide that fact.
Both had lost sons to the earth
to the horrors of battle –
Lord Clarke in fact two.
Victor Clarke lost his life
in the Third Battle of Bastogne
His brother Watson died of fever
in the squalid trenches
when his wound grew septic –
he had only been grazed by a bayonet –
Thaddeus cursed the waste.
To save our lives I must walk
in fields and forests unknown
Alvin Bramley died a hero
in the final days of the fighting
the final push to liberate Europe
Thaddeus remembered them all –
Victor, Watson and Alvin
were his dearest friends.
He sat and stared at their names
inscribed forever in stone.
Sometimes he felt guilty
to still be among the living
He considered himself a coward
despite the Queen's Cross of Valour
and the bullets in his legs
To save our land I must fight
amongst the enemy undaunted
“Doesn’t bravery mean
that I should have given my all?
My all?
My life?
How could I still be here
when mate and friend lie lost?
The battle field has swallowed them
yet I am breathing still.”
To win this fight I must not fail
so children may walk our shores unfettered
Perhaps it was not guilt but just
loneliness that prompted such
desolate and savage thoughts?
After all he was the only one to return.
He did come home to a hero’s welcome.
Real or imagined
he felt their stares
and could not help but
think their gazing eyes
full of contempt.
“Don’t worry my dears
because I have the same question.”
Why am I hear and not your sons?
Why do I stand when your brother can not?”
To carry on we cannot falter
for our liberty our sacred alter
He came upon remembrance day
and paid his due respects.
It had snowed several times since then
and the poppy wreaths still lay
under the layers.
His thoughts continued
in melancholy of rambunctious mates
of battles lost
of mother’s love
and her passing
and Christmas mornings.
He was lonely.
He was afraid of being alone.
He was afraid of not being alone.
For so long his pain and guilt
were all that he had it seemed
pointless to wish any different.
The bells were chiming
to call the Village to Service once more
and people were starting to gather.
He would wait a while longer
until he heard the church door open.
“Good morning Thaddeus”
he turned to see a bundled
but well-dressed woman
“Oh hello Mrs Bramley”
“Merry Christmas to you”
“And to you”
She paused and stared at the stone.
The winter air betrayed a heavy sigh.
She turned with her walking stick
and sat next to Thaddeus.
He suspected she really didn’t need her cane.
They sat in silence contemplating
each other’s presence.
That pang of guilt began to return
“Why Alvin and not me?”
She turned to him suddenly –
Had he said that out loud?
She took hold of his hand
and smiled into his swollen eyes.
She saw his pain and knew his thoughts.
“I miss my Alvin something fierce!
And I would give almost anything to
have him back – to have all of them back.”
He stared into her eyes
and his heart began to burst.
“Only God knows why things
are the way they are Thaddeus.
But do not think for a single moment
that I would trade your life for his”
Her bluntness took him aback.
“I. Um.”
“When you went away
it was four boys
to save the world.
But now –
“I see you. I see your isolation.
You are not alone.
It is not you against the world –
I have been very remiss
I should have” She paused
not really knowing what she should
have done for this boy
but knew
but felt his pain and sadness.
“We should get inside”
she changed the subject
“And I expect you to walk me
home and stay for Christmas dinner”
This woman –
the mother of his fallen comrade
the mother of his childhood friend –
he had known her his entire life
and certainly knew not to contradict her.
The organ began to play
inside the church
They stood and took one last
look at the memorial.
It is just a stone
set in the Village Green
but it does what it is meant to do
Remind the living
of the fallen.
To carry on we cannot falter
“Come, help an old lady to church”
Story By Darren Goad © 2015-2019
Photo by Sandwell Council (cropped)
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