Talking stones

One visitor moved away, wandered out through the gate, down the street and into the countryside. She found a hollow in a field, sat down and looked around. Gradually the occasional hum of insects and twittering of birds gave way to a quietness which eased the tension inside her. At some point her fingers found a stone in the loose soil at her feet. She picked it up and gazed at it. Slowly, as if a curtain was opening somewhere in her mind, it seemed to speak, linking her with an event that happened there in the past.

It was just a suggestion, she reasoned at first, trying to ignore the prickly feeling in her eyes; but the suggestion persisted and eventually, with flushed cheeks and tightening throat her emotions took over. Even as she fumbled for her handkerchief, low cries bubbled up from deep inside, a few tears followed, glistening as they trickled down her cheeks before the dam burst and a kind of healing took place in the flood. When it had finished she looked again at the stone before lifting her eyes to look around, and like watching a scene in a play, this is what she came to understand:

Jim could hardly believe his luck. Three years now since he'd left home. Home! How eagerly he'd left. Nearly didn't though, after his father embraced him. He could still see his face and hear his voice struggling to say, “I'll probably never see you again, son.” That was true. His Dad had died two years later. Still, lots of Canadian lads found themselves in the same position. He’d done a lot of growing up since then.

He'd been looking forward to Christmas, still over five weeks away, but today ... well, it was different ... with his thoughts centred on himself, he'd become vividly aware that he was a person in a way he had never felt before. It started that very morning. He was more than the body he inhabited, but why had he come to that knowledge now? And in his mind, he thought perhaps a new beginning was being offered to him. He felt the tension ease from his mind and body and smiled, feeling more like the young man he still was. Some of his mates called him 'dreamer'. “You'll still be dreaming when it's all over,” they'd said. Many of them were dead heroes now.

He stared ahead as he thought of them, then looked again. That's odd, he thought, it seemed like he was looking at a photograph. What he saw was real and yet nothing moved. Not a cloud, wing, leaf or single blade of grass. All was still. It was the same behind him, he knew without turning round. He made himself pause in his thinking and breathed deeply and slowly, only then did he realize how tense he'd been.

He glanced at his watch. Another four minutes and he'd have a break. Then over to his right something unbelievable happened. A couple of young girls appeared, and after all the other sounds he'd heard, their happy chatter drifted across to him, sounding like the song of angels. Slowly they came nearer, hampered by the debris in their path but waving bunches of flowers in the air and calling out to him. Alarmed now, he was about to shout a warning when others appeared. More young people with a scattering of elderly folk behind . They were calling too, some with flags or flowers in their hands others with bottles of wine. Jim knew then that it must be true.

For a moment he was torn between excitement and dread, then he glanced again at his watch: 10.57am. Three minutes to go until break time, he murmured, saddened and yet happy as the faces of his dead mates came and went with each step the young girls took towards him. Something burst from his throat, a mixture of sobs and laughter. It was bloody well true! The war ... it would end at 11am today, they said!

Smiling now, Jim watched as the girls arrived safely, thanked them for the flowers, and kissed their innocent faces. Then turned once more to face the firing line, as he laughed and waved the flowers in the air, the sharp crack of a rifle shot cut through the air and in the silence that followed, he crumpled to the ground. That one single shot, fired by a German sniper gave Jim an ending and a new beginning. Just two minutes before the declared Armistice on the 11th of November, 1918, a private from Canada was the last soldier to be killed in the Great War.

All fell quiet again, but now she felt a peace within her as she placed the stone back on the soil of Belgium. Some little time later, a voice broke through her thoughts: “I beg your pardon Mrs Price. I hope I didn't startle you.” It was the leader of their tour group. She shook her head without looking at him. “We'll be having lunch in half an hour or so. There's no rush though, perhaps you'd like to stay here a little longer?”

Again she just nodded. She didn't need to say anything. He'd seen it before and waited for a moment or two before turning to leave, then he said, “Not too lonely on your own then?'”

“No,” she said. “In a way, the stones have been talking to me.” This time looking up at him she added, “I suppose that sounds strange?”

“Not at all. Quite a number of folk have said the same kind of thing on these tours. When they do, they don't seem to have the need to come back again. After all, these are the Shalom tours. Shalom, Mrs Price.”

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)