7th/8th August, night -- J'suis malade pour mourir

His sleep had grown increasingly fitful as the night drew on. He would wake -- if one could call it that -- anxious and disoriented, looking Charcot, or Maugan, or sometimes confusing the two and it was Maugan who was blind and lost, and Charcot who had been ill, who had been getting better.

At last, however, perhaps exhausted by these episodes he seemed to slip into a deeper sleep. Deeper, but no more restful: he dreamt of the pyres, the stench of the bodies and the smoke, the sweltering heat.

He reached down, gripped a pair of wrists, lifted -- someone else must have been there too, grabbing the feet -- swung, dropped. Over and over and over again. The pile of dead grew higher, though the impossible number of bodies strewn close around it never seemed to decrease. But there was smoke rising from their pyre now, someone must have lit it, and that meant they were done.

He turned to look for Charcot. And turned. And turned again. He wasn't there. There was no one there. He tried to call for him, but his voice was hoarse and weak and would not carry over the screams.

Screams? He turned back to the pyre in sudden horror: they hadn't all been dead. Wounded, unconscious, and Charcot -- Paol hadn't had a chance to go back for him -- they must have found him under the horse, they would have thought he was dead too!

The flames were only starting to lick up the pyre; it wasn't blazing yet, but it was so far away. Paol started to run. His foot caught on a dead body and he fell forward, scrambled to his feet, ran two steps and fell again, he couldn't keep on his feet for more than a moment. He had to get to the pyre, had to find Charcot and the other wounded, had to-- He fell forward again, and as he did so saw the flames surge, engulfing the pyre. The cries broke upon him then, shattering and terrible, drowning out every other sound, every thought. It hurt, as if his skull was splitting apart. He tried to cover his ears, but his arm wouldn't work.

He couldn't move his arm! He was lying on the battlefield and there was something -- someone -- on top of him, lying on his arm. He couldn't move it, couldn't get up and the flames were just feet away. He struggled wildly, the heat of the fire beating against his face, but he could not free himself. At once slow and terrifyingly fast the flames reached them, engulfing the body which was pinning him and his arm together. White hot pain ripped along his arm and he tried to scream, but smoke filled his mouth and all he could do was gasp.

"Paol! Paol, sshhh! Paol, wake up! Are you awake? Hush, it's all right! Damn candle... sorry. There we go. Paol? Are you awake? See, it's me, Foucheaux. You're all right, it was a nightmare."

Paol opened his eyes, but it scarcely made any difference. The thick smoke shrouded everything in darkness. He could see the fire, just a tiny light in the distance, but it would be on top of them soon, he could already feel the oven-like heat.

Suddenly he was aware of someone standing over him. "Charcot?" he croaked. "We have to go. We have to --" he tried to push himself up, but his arm was still pinned. "I can't--I can't move my arm. Please, help, I have to get up. We have to go."

"I know, I know. Don't get up. Your arm's just in a bandage. Monsieur Montreuil bandaged it up for you. Just lie back. You're safe. Everything's fine."

"No, no, please! What are you--Get off me!" What was happening? Where was he? It was dark and close and hot, but there was no smoke. His right hand felt the edge of the bed and he rolled onto his side, trying to pull himself over onto the floor.

"No no no, ssshh! It's all right, Paol! Don't get out of bed, you'll hurt your arm!" Foucheaux tried to push him onto the bed again before he could go tumbling out onto the floor. "This nice bed, stay in bed!"

Paol fell back, gasping. He felt dizzy and sick, his head was splitting and his shoulder and arm were on fire with pain. "Foucheaux?" he said weakly.

"Yeah, it's me, I'm here," Foucheaux answered, smiling what he hoped was a reassuring smile.  "You just had a nightmare is all.  But you're safe.  You're fine."

There was a quiet tap at the door and then it opened, letting in light from another candle. It was the young woman. "Paol?"

"He's all right," Foucheaux told her. "He just had a nightmare, a bad dream while he was sleeping."

Safe? Paol let out a shaky breath. He was still only half aware, but he recognized Foucheaux's voice and for the moment that was enough. "I thought -- The battlefield and...and the fires..." he tried falteringly, "I--I couldn't--"

But there was a second voice now, familiar and safe. "Manuela?"

"I heard noises," Manuela said awkwardly. Now that she was here, she didn't know what possible help she could offer. She didn't even know how to speak to him.



Foucheaux looked at her, and then back at Paol. "Yeah, it's Manuela come to see you. You're safe in bed at Manuela's house. No fires, no battlefield. Are you hot? Do you want a drink?"

He was in a house? That would explain the closed in feeling, he supposed, and the fact that the ground was so strangely soft. He closed his eyes. "Water?" he rasped.

"Of course." There was a jug on the table and a cup ready for the purpose. Foucheaux poured it and then realized it was going to be a bit awkward to help him drink it. He handed the cup instead to the girl, who seemed to understand and moved to the other side of the bed. While he reached carefully behind Paol's neck to lift his head, the girl held the cup to his mouth and carefully tipped it forward.

"How are you feeling, Paol?" She spoke quietly in a babble of Spanish that he probably would not understand, but it seemed like she ought to talk to him. "Did the surgeon help you? Do you feel any better? You have many friends, many soldier friends."

Everything was shadowy and unfocused, but he felt a hand gently lift his head, and then the blessedly cool touch of the cup against his lips, and Manuela's voice very close by, just talking. He couldn't understand her, even the words he ought to have known, but he didn't mind, he just liked hearing her voice.

The water was sweet and cool, soothing his raw throat as it slid down, and gone all too quickly. "Thank you," he mumured, letting his head sag against Foucheaux's hand.

"Do you want some more?" Foucheaux asked, easing his head back against the pillow.

"Would you like an orange?" Manuela asked. She had brought one up earlier and left it on the table. The surgeon had said he could have some fruit.

Foucheaux looked up at her. "Oh, or an orange? Do you want an orange?"

"Narange?" The ghost of a smile touched Paol's face. "Can speak Spanish better with that."

"A Spanish narange," Manuela said with an answering smile. She sat down in the other chair to peel it and break it into sections.

"Are you hot?" Foucheaux asked. "Oh, you're awful hot. I've got a cool damp rag here for your forehead. How's that?"

"Here's a piece of orange," Manuela said. She held it out, not sure if he would be able to take it in his hand or if she ought to feed it to him.

He flinched at the shock of the damp rag against his skin, but the cloth was cool and eased the burning which suffused his brow and he relaxed again. "Thanks, mate."

There was a movement on his other side and then Manuela's voice. She was holding out her hand and he reached to take it and she pressed something into his own hand. A faint, confused crease gathered between his brows. "What is it?"

"Orange? Do you want some narange?" she asked him. She broke the piece in half and held it in front of his face so he could see and smell it.

He blinked at the sudden presence of something so near his face. "Narange," he repeated slowly, lifting his arm to take it from her. It was tart and sweet, just like that morning weeks ago. Or maybe it was years. "Thanks," he murmured, letting his eyes slip shut.

A warm trickle of water slid down his face from the rag and he reached up to brush it away. His hand came away sticky. Frowning he put his hand again to his face and felt the cloth -- only it no longer felt like a piece of linen -- and in an instant he was alone in the dark.

His body gave a convulsive jerk and with a weak, choked cry he clawed the the limp, bloody mass off of his face. He tried frantically to wipe away the blood, ineffectually smearing it down across his nose and mouth, and with a shuddering sob of a curse began scrubbing his hand over the bedclothes.

"What are you doing? It's all right! What's wrong, Paol?" Tentatively, Foucheaux put a hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong, Paolo?" Manuela asked, watching him helplessly.

Someone seized his shoulder and he twisted away, pain drilling into his back. He could hear voices, unintelligible, foreign, Spanish. The partisans had got into the room, they'd got past the door, past him, into the barn. They'd found him in the dark.

"No," he pleaded, "Please! I'm sorry. I'm sorry--" But nothing he could say could make any difference, it didn't change what he'd done, what he'd been part of, and now he was going to pay for that. Faces, figures swirled out of the darkness, pressing close over him and he flung his arm out, gripping the edge of the bed, trying once more to haul himself over.

"It's all right, Paol!  No no, stay in the bed.  Careful, you don't want to hurt your arm.  Lie back, it's fine!  You're safe!  You're with me, Foucheaux.  And Manuela."  Nothing seemed to be getting through to him - not Foucheaux's words, not Manuela's voice, not the taste and smell of an orange, not the cool touch of a damp cloth.  What else was there?  "Paol, remember that funny song that Marie-Eve taught you to sing to little Rémy-Jean?  'Have to go and find a wolf, have to go and find a wolf...'"

Hands pulled him back again. It was no use. They were shouting still... or maybe it wasn't shouting, but he could catch snatches here and there this time. Names. Names that were familiar, but he couldn't remember why. Only that they were important. He needed to remember. Why couldn't he remember? Were they in danger? Danger? But even that was starting to slip through his fingers. He couldn't remember what he was afraid of, but he was still terrified; if anything the confusion made it worse.

He could still hear voices. A voice. Not shouting or angry, but almost singsong. Even that had something familiar about it, but that too seemed to hang just out of reach. It didn't make any sense! He clutched at his aching head, tears sliding down his cheeks. His heart was racing and his whole body felt like it was on fire. He just wanted it to end.

"Shh, shh, it's all right!  You're safe, you're fine, everything's all right.  Manuela, come and hold his hand.  His hand?  Paol, I'm going to give you some laudanum, all right?  In a nice drink of cool water, some medicine that Monsieur Montreuil left for you, all right?  Drink it for me.  Drink it for Maugan.  It will make you feel better, like you're at home in Bretagne, in Braize, yeah?  Beautiful Braize, beautiful... um... the seaside and farms and all, and your maman and sisters.  Here, Manuela, lift his head?"

Someone took his hand and he held tightly to the gentle grip. There was someone else too, though he was aware of them only as shadows, no longer frightening, but that slipped away as soon as he tried to focus on them, everything but the hold on his hand.

Maugan? This time the name called up a memory. "Maugan? Have you seen him? I can't--" Breizh? "No...No, the infirmary – I can't—Maman?" But there was a hand lifting his head and then a cup was pressed to his mouth. The water was faintly bitter tasting, but he hardly noticed.

He sank back against the pillow, murmuring something in his own language then shaking his head, continuing in the same soft, unintelligible mutter as if he was arguing with someone, but through it all he clung to the hand that was holding his, as if it were an anchor, keeping him from drifting and losing himself completely.