4


Alan didn't want to die. He wasn't ready yet.
He'd been waiting an eternity for someone to help him, but he now knew that it was hopeless; the attack had been beaten back. In the crump hole with him were two soldiers, an Englishman and a German, slumped together. They were both dead, their heads bowed towards each other like conspirators. Their sightless eyes gazed at Alan and made him uncomfortable.
To distract himself, he took the picture of Sarah out of his pocket and looked at it.
She was so beautiful. He'd decided only that morning that he would marry her the instant he had some leave. The others in his platoon had chided him, saying he'd regret it when things calmed down. But he knew that he loved her and all he wanted was to be with her, to tell her how much he cared for her.
And now she'd never know. Because he was going to die here. Nobody would get to him in time, he knew that now. He struggled to sit up, suddenly desperate to get back on his own, but the sharp pain in his chest made him gasp. He sank back again, dizzy.
He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined her face the last time they'd been together. The way she'd smiled. The sound of her laughter at his feeble jokes.
When he opened his eyes again, the sky had grown noticeably darker. He panicked. He must try to stay awake.
"Sarah," he called softly. "Sarah, where are you?"
He sobbed quietly.
He opened his eyes again when he heard someone call his name. And he realized too that the guns had stopped. It was quiet.
The voice called to him again. It was her voice, he was sure of it.
"Sarah...?" he replied.
He looked up.
She was standing over him in the crump hole. But she was gigantic, seventy-five feet tall. He screwed his eyes up tight and looked again. She was still there.
"How...?" he asked, but she knelt down, placing a finger on her lips to shush him.
"Don't worry," she said, easing her hand under his broken body. "I'm going to take care of you."
He moaned a little as she lifted him up, away from the mud and death. Safe in her arms, he drifted back into unconsciousness.

* * *

When he awoke, he found himself in a meadow, under a weeping willow. He was in Sarah's lap; she was gently caressing his face with her finger.
"Where am I?" he asked, looking around.
"A place we both hold dear," she replied, gazing down at him.
Of course! It was the place he first fell in love with her. The town of Beccles, in Suffolk county.
They'd been sitting under this very tree, feeding ducks in the river, when he'd suddenly turned and looked into her eyes. She'd held his gaze and they shared one of those rare, beautiful moments of understanding between people when words aren't necessary, as if they were each seeing directly into the other's soul...
Alan smiled; so she'd known how he felt all along.
This was Alan's favourite place in the world. The river Waveney babbled past, pleased to have the two lovers back again. Birds sang for them in the tree above. Ducks floated by, quacking contentedly while their brood paddled to keep up.
But it couldn't last. The pain in his chest was getting worse, but not entirely due to the bullet; though the wound was mortal, he was dying of a broken heart at the thought of leaving her behind.
Sarah tried to be brave, to accept what she knew must eventually happen. As Alan grew weaker, she lifted him to her breast, pressing him gently against her heart.
His vision dimmed. He was so tired. And he thought he could hear a Celtic harp playing somewhere. The melody was haunting; not happy yet not quite sad either. And Sarah began to sing, her sweet voice tempered with meloncholy.

"Fear no more the heat o' th' sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this and come to dust..."

Alan's breathing became increasingly shallow and irregular.
Though he tried to cling to life, he felt himself letting go.

"Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan.
All lovers young, all lovers must
consign to thee and come to dust..."

And a single tear rolled down Sarah's cheek.


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