Gone the Tides of Earth

Inertia overcame us in the heated sedan cruising through the clear, crisp coldness of the mountain roads. Nestled up front Cian had dozed off quite fast, incubated in the direct, warming stream of the radiators. In the backseat sat Alci and I, windows rolled down until from the chill could only bear leaving them open a crack. The driver was a trim, middle-aged man with beard stubble and a stern lip; he was in uniform, so were we, although unlike us his lapel boasted the colours of a few commendations.

That meant, ostensibly, this man had fought and seen service in the field. We ourselves, as part of the foreign dispatch, were left to attend duties the countrymen considered to be ignoble or nuisances. Contrarily we realized that we had survived through war, battlefield and frontlines proper, but were not yet soldiers when we did it.

And so this man drove us down, those available enlisted persons who could be spared told by wire were to be escorted elsewhere. We didn’t speak because when we had prior his face ended fixed in a sneer, and so we remained quiet, reposed. Animosity was the only ambient factor in the car, obvious besides the billowing heat. Most national personnel thought of expatriate signups as dystopian holidaymakers. As if it was our responsibility or lack for not being called on to fight. So as anguish was a contest, apropos who had lived through more, walked farther in greater suffering and then had a chip on their shoulder to cast the pain at others, less spoiled, having not suffered the same.

‘Where you from?’ Accent eastern, this man’s voice was sickly hoarse; I looked aside at Alci, who snored gently, and in the passenger-seat, Cian’s body swayed softly. Staring ahead, the driver’s eyes flashed upon me in the rear-view. ‘Are you an American?’

‘Canadian.’

‘Why you come here?’

‘I didn’t come here first. Just this last year or so.’

‘Good. So not stupid man. Not come make war.’

‘No, sir.’

‘War is men disease; process daily, constant practice.’

‘I agree.’

‘Remember; what you do returns you.’

‘Alright.’

‘Then where you before?’

‘I spent a few years between France and Italy, and a few countries in between.’

‘Ah, in Paris vermouth and in Napoli grappa.’

‘Something like that.’

‘Good. Boy for peace. You write?’

‘Yes.’

‘You artist in Paris?’

‘For a little.’

‘It takes you over.’

‘It does.’

‘You don’t go to Paris, city of love and lights - it goes into you.’

‘Yes.’ I could not help smiling.

‘But not take self too seriously - not Picasso, not Fitzgerald?’

‘Never.’

‘Take self serious marks end progress.’

‘Of course.’

‘What three do for event?’

‘Not sure yet. We got orders in the evening. Don’t know where we’re going yet.’

‘Near Olympos Oros, I take you. You join First Army?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yes, in body but cannot spirit. They love their killing, in mortgage for it.’

‘Alright, thanks.’

‘I was in First Army. Bad things. Best stay away. You will have good time, keeping your head down. Enjoying yourself, too.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Call me Tenente. You are quiet, polite. Why you sit and brood?’

‘Sorry about it.’

‘Speak up, friend. Consumed of your own story. Talk instead.’

‘Henry is introspective. He won’t talk before thinking.’ Alci’s voice sounded tired, one eye lazily open under a fluttering lid. ‘Mostly he especially wishes to go and write in cafés again. There was little inspiration so high up here at the post.’

‘Mainly so no more sleeping with guns in the bunkroom,’ Cian chimed in, groggily.

‘What are those then?’ the driver asked, indicating Cian’s holstered pistol.

‘His heart longs for Courtney and her affections.’

‘Mostly in escape of the frontier of war.’

‘Alright fellas, dig in, eh.’ I put my head back, resting eyes. ‘These are my lot. Going for the First Army.’

‘Don’t make jokes, they hear. First Army no good. Cowardice better.’

‘Can’t be worse than these clowns,’ Cian added.

‘Much worse. Don’t ever join. No go.’

After an hour the mountains fell away to hills and plain, scratch backroads gave way to freshly paved highways. The sides were lined by rows of tall streetlamps burning bright yellow. In their light shone the reflected bodies of fir trees in great columns; it was like some eerie museum hall leading to an exhibit. Along the way the whole was curvy, winding, then sometimes straightening and the juts of hills in close behind.

The boys were back asleep in half an hour, at this time I caught the driver looking briefly into my eyes vis-à-vis the mirror. Certainly, he could not have found much there during the early hour, but from him me sensed deep resolve.

‘I try write sometimes too,’ he said. ‘I attempt pretty verse. Always poetic prose in English.’

‘What do you write of?’

‘Life sometimes. I grew up on Byron, Rimbaud, Frost. At night I think of them, so cannot help trying to be a poet myself: Forward oblivion nights unto dark; There you shall find yonder somber wood will you prevail, awaits clear light lights your trail; Find the heart of end: you’ll aright.’

‘Thank you,’ I said softly, in thought about his words.

‘Sorry for that,’ he mused.

By dawn we were in the hills, they were like white rolls crisped golden at the edges, speckled with rosemary, oregano, occasionally paprika. Alci and Cian stirred, though kept sleeping, I was not in a place where I would find sleep. Every little bit I could tell the lieutenant felt the desire to continue our conversation.

‘Who’s your favourite writer?’

‘Hemingway.’

‘Yes, I like him. He understood courage. Leaders must be strong in way reaffirms others. Appreciate what he writes.’

Speaking of the olden writer made me remember time spent in France. I saw in mind the sights of Paris again, its cathedrals, spires, hotels, cafés, great stairs, the overall freshness of the city. Sophia came to me as well, the contrast of her electric features and ivory skin, and us feeling alive in Normandy staying at an inn on the sea: made love liberally on the bed, bathroom, floor, in the sands of the beach; it were now as then, the sensation of it all buried like something recollected from in the past.

‘Anyone else?’

‘Tolkien.’

‘Another master of craft. You have solid head.’

Well into the morning the road had taken us off the highway. There were many vehicles now, several times the caravan stalled. People walked amongst the vehicles and some haggled for food or drink. Carts of livestock and horse-pulled wagons lumbered by on the hump of the curb. The landscape was rugged and rustic with many agricultural features, old barnyard farms, rife places of abandonment and well-weathering.

‘We go to a party in celebration of the party hosting the celebration,’ the driver said, all of us awake, watching traffic. ‘First Army. Any on throne are phony, ones who put themselves there most dangerous, curdled souls.’

‘You said you were in the First Army?’ Alci asked genuinely.

‘Long ago. Many changes I’ve made since.’ His eyes this time did not flash in the rear-view. ‘We are all called on for celebration. These people you do not say no to. As young man I used to think fighting for righteous cause honourable.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Cian asked a serious way.

‘To seek to eradicate evil immerses you in its nature. Makes a lamb lion, knight a savage who ravages. Hate creates hate, it cannot build. Love cannot destroy.’

‘What do you do now?’ I asked.

‘Breathe,’ he said simply, ‘because I could never before.’

‘Did the First Army used to be good?’

‘Once they were.’

‘What’s the point of all this then?’ Cian interjected.

‘We dance alone in the dark so when light comes back, days will be renewed.’

‘When’s that going to be?’

‘Little one is very sarcastic. You three do not seem like war boys.’

‘Not one of us is even full Greek,’ Alci finished.

‘I know this.’

At the end of a winding series the land gave way to a long descent, over the slope we saw a great plain with the town and many marquees and tents erected amidst its fields. Getting on towards the afternoon we began our drop from the hills, going slowly behind vehicles in wait and often losing sight of the plain within vast escarpments of wood. The nature of the downward cruise lulled us to rest once more, I tried to stay alert but the motion was like a boat gentling along a meandering stream.