Holy Water

He turned to Margaret, who was listening, her eyes wide. "When your boy is a man, and the next war comes. And it will come," he said fiercely, "because men are too stupid and mean and vicious to do anything else. When the next war comes, and your boy asks me about it, I'm going to tell him the truth. That war is nothing but blood and stink and fear and death. So much death.

"And that is why I have to go to the farm. I have been swimming in death for months. I need life around me. Growing things. A place to forget what I saw. A place to remember who I am."

He stood abruptly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...I'm going to bed." He walked out of the room.

The three remaining at the table waited until they heard the door close upstairs. "Good God," Carl whispered. "Did he...did he ever put that in his letters?"

Maggie shook her head, her face full of pity. "You can't put something like that in a letter."

God, what is wrong with me? Charlie thought, as he prowled the small bedroom like a nervous animal. Why am I so angry? It's not their fault they don't understand. And it's not their fault they didn't see what I saw.

It's because you don't fit in here anymore, a small part of him answered. You left a farm boy and came back a killer. You were supposed to make the world safe for democracy. All you did was help fill a few graves.

He sank to the bed, shuddering. Somehow it all seemed unreal. The clean sheets on the mattress, the small bowl of dried rose petals on the bedside table, the glow of the polished wood of the bureau, all seemed less solid than the memory of mortar shells. He closed his eyes, and he could still see green leaves falling, stripped from trees by a hail of man-made death. They settled on his uniform as he clung, shaking, to the ground, his only desire to somehow survive the carnage he saw all about him.

Instead, he had been forced to move forward into that hell and shoot men whose only crime was to wear a uniform a different color than his own.

He sighed, shaking his head, and unbuttoned his shirt. It was going to be a long day tomorrow, and he needed to sleep now if he was going to get up early and inspect the farm.

The farm. The mere thought was like a cool breeze to his fevered mind. He turned off the bedside lamp and sank between cedar-scented sheets. Through the open window came the soft sounds of a small town at night. He could hear the voices of the family next door. Dogs barked in the distance. And underlying it all was the age-old sound of crickets chirping in the grass.

He was asleep in moments.

Chapter Two

Dreaming...

September 1905

He was six years old, and in a bad mood. Mama was busy cleaning the house. Maggie was working on her schoolwork. His father was out in the fields with Frank, his older brother, harvesting the corn crop. And no one had any time for any of his problems.

"Good Lord," Mama snapped in the kitchen, as she nearly ran into him for the third time. "Get out from underfoot, Charles. Go outside and play. I have work to do in here."

Fine, Charlie thought, as he stomped away from the house, his bare feet throwing up puffs of dust as he walked down the path to the creek. I'll stay away all day. They'll miss me soon. And then maybe Maggie will want to play, instead of working on her stupid composition.

His chin quivered, but he didn't cry. It wasn't his fault baby Elizabeth had died last winter. Ever since that terrible morning when Mama had found her tiny body in the cradle, she was tired and cross all the time, with no time for him or Maggie or Frank. Some days she would just sit in her rocking chair for hours at a time, staring off into space, until it was time to cook supper. And his father had become more and more quiet as the slow months crept past, unable or unwilling to spend time with his son when three other children had already been stolen from him.

He blinked, the path wavering in front of his watering eyes, and sniffled angrily. He was not crying. He was a big boy, nearly seven years old, and his father told him that big boys didn't cry. Even when his little sister, who he had loved to hold, had been taken up to heaven and he would never see her again.

He stumbled, his feet sinking into squelching mud, and found he had reached the creek. To his left, water poured over a lip of stone in a waterfall, some ten or twelve feet high, and splashed into a deep pool, perhaps twenty yards from side to side, so clear a man standing at the top of the waterfall would be able to see all the way down to the gravelly bottom. To his right the small river slowly flowed away to its distant meeting with the St. Croix.

He moved off the path to the edge of the creek bank and sat down with a flop. Dangling his muddy feet into the cool, slowly flowing water, he leaned back until he was lying down in the sun-warmed grass. Wriggling contentedly as a sleeping puppy, he closed his eyes. Maybe he should take a nap. Then he could go back home for supper when he woke up.

He was startled by a cool grip around his ankles. He sat up quickly to find himself facing a girl around his own age, floating in the water. Her long hair was pure black, and drifted around her face, undulating in the movement of the current. Her eyes were wide and brown, the color of water in the shade of oak trees overhanging a hidden spring. Her skin was dark tan and Charlie thought his mama would have something to say about that, if she could see this girl. Mama was always telling Maggie to put on her bonnet so she didn't get freckles in the sun.

Maggie didn't always listen, though.

The strange girl wore a long dress that covered her from shoulders to ankles, which fascinated Charlie. It was the color of the green reeds on the creek bank, and clung to her skin like fish scales. Below the dress' hem, he could see her small dark feet, paddling gently in the water.

"Who are you?" asked the girl. Her voice was high and clear, and faintly accusatory. "And why are you dirtying up my water with your muddy feet?"

"My feet aren't muddy!" Charlie retorted indignantly. "Well, they were," he amended, because he was an honest boy. "But they aren't anymore," he said, looking down past the girl's grasping fingers to his undeniably clean feet.

The little girl made a disgusted noise. "Because you cleaned them off in my creek," she said.

"This is my papa's creek. Not yours."

The grip around his ankles tightened. "You are a very rude little boy," the girl said. "First you dirty my clean water, then you tell me your father owns this creek. Tell me. Does he own the rain when it falls from the sky as well? Maybe I should just drown you. It might save me trouble later."

Charlie gaped at the girl, his mouth wide open. "Drown me? Why?"

The girl scowled. "I don't like it when my water gets dirty, little boy. And a little boy who makes my water dirty now will grow into a man who does the same thing. But it will be worse, because a man can do things a little boy can't. Did you do it on purpose?"

"No!" said Charlie. "I just put my feet in the water because it feels good. I didn't mean to make the water dirty. I'm sorry," he added.

The girl's expression lightened, and her grip on his legs eased, then released. "Very well," she said, backing away until she could prop her arms on a large stone that poked its head above the surface of the water. She rested her chin on her folded hands. "I believe you. What's your name?"

"I'm Charlie," he replied. "What's your name? Where do you live?"

"My name is Lilaea. And I live here. In the river."

"Lily?"

"No. Li-lay-ah," she said, her voice lilting and musical.

At that moment, Charles Schuler fell in love. But in the way of little boys the world over, he had no intention of revealing his infatuation to his beloved.

"Lily," he said firmly, his mouth curving in a smile. "Mama says only fish and frogs live in the creek. Not little girls."

Lily swung an arm wide, sweeping water high into the air where it fell down onto Charlie's laughing face. "You are a very stupid little boy, Charlie. This is my river. And I live here. I make sure the water is clean and the fish and frogs and turtles have somewhere safe to live."

She gestured, her dark arm seeming to encompass the entire world.

"Ducks come here in the fall. And geese stop here when they fly north in the spring. Birds drink from my pools, and otters and muskrats and beavers live on my banks."

Fascinated, Charles leaned forward, and as Lily spoke, the afternoon sped away.

He came home that evening with the setting sun, just in time for supper, and told his parents and older brother and sister about the wonderful girl he had met at the creek. His brother Frank, thirteen years old and proud of it, snorted condescendingly. Maggie looked interested.

His mother dismissed it as the imagination of a young child.

"Lord, the stories this boy tells," she said, setting a plate of fried chicken on the table. An amused smile lit her tired face for the first time in weeks. "A girl who lives in the river! It sounds like one of the tales your mother used to tell us, Josiah."

Josiah Havenilse's eyes went soft with remembrance. "It does, at that," he admitted. He frowned and pointed a loaded fork at his youngest son. "But stay out of that pool, Charles," he said. "It's deep, and you don't know how to swim yet. You could lose your footing and drown very easily."

"Yes, sir," Charlie said meekly. As the conversation at the dinner table moved on to other subjects, he decided it would be a bad idea if he told his parents that Lily had promised to teach him how to swim the next time he came to visit her.

"Do you think it's true?" Edith Havenilse asked her husband later that evening, as they prepared for bed.

"What?"

"That silly story Charlie told. The little girl at the pool."

Josiah laughed and embraced his wife, his lips nuzzling her neck. "I don't see how it could be. Charlie's probably telling a story he half-remembers his grandmother telling him before she died.

"But that doesn't mean it's completely false, either," he continued, his voice serious. "Mother's people were here for a long time before the white people came. They know this land better than we do. Who knows what old truths lie behind some of their tales? And Charles is usually a very honest child." His fingers unlaced her dress.

Edith hesitated, stiffening, then turned to him, her face clouded with grief. "Josiah...I think you should know. Elizabeth...she was the last child I will give you."

Josiah laid a gentle hand on the curve of her belly. "You've given me six, Edith. What more could any man ask?"

"But three are gone," she said, her voice choked with tears.

"And is that your fault? Did you send the diphtheria to take John? Or were you responsible when Andy caught pneumonia? It was God who took Elizabeth and John and Andrew from us, Edith. Not you." He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her temple, where a few threads of gray were beginning to glimmer in the dark glory of her hair.

"We have three strong children left. Frank and Charlie will be able to take care of the farm when we are gone. And," he said with a lecherous grin as he pulled her dress down to her waist, "I didn't marry you because you were good at bearing children, but because you were so good at what led to bearing children."

"Josiah!" she protested weakly, but melted into his arms, the same way she had on their wedding night, nearly twenty-five years before.

Ignoring her protests, he picked her up and carried her to their bed, where he endeavored to prove to her, with his mouth and his hands, the truth of his words.

The present

Charlie woke up feeling refreshed and alert. After washing in the pitcher and basin set on the bureau, he dressed in sturdy work clothes Maggie and his mother had brought from the farm. Heavy trousers, a thick work shirt, warm socks, and a pair of boots he found on the floor of the closet, still smelling faintly of the barnyard. He smiled as he pulled them on. He found a quilted jacket on a hook on the back of the bedroom door, and folded it over his arm as he went downstairs. The day promised to be as fair and warm as the one before, but the morning air was chilly.

In the kitchen he found Maggie in a dressing gown and slippers, making breakfast. He halted in the doorway, feeling guilty.

"Sit down," she said, waving at the table, as she turned over strips of bacon in the skillet, sending up a heavenly aroma. "I knew you would be up at the crack of dawn. And I can never sleep as late as Carl, anyway. Twenty years as a farmer's daughter means I'm up with the sun, just like you." She moved the bacon to a plate and poured eggs into the skillet, beating them with a whisk.

In a few minutes they sat down to a large breakfast. Charlie forked scrambled eggs into his mouth and took a sip of hot coffee.

"So, what are your plans for the day?" Maggie asked, spreading butter and strawberry preserves on a slice of bread.

Charlie shrugged. "I'm just going to take a look around, make sure everything looks all right," he replied. "I'll check out the stock, look at the fields, make sure I have what I need for when I move in."

"You won't find much in the pantry," Maggie warned. "Mama and I cleaned things out when we moved her into town after Father died. All that is left are things that won't spoil. You'll have to buy food at the store." She fumbled in the pocket of her robe and pushed over some heavy gold coins. Charlie picked up the handful of double eagles and jingled them in his hands.

"Thanks, Sis," he said. He slipped the twenty-dollar coins into his trouser pocket. "I'll pay you back once the bank opens."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Did all that artillery fire damage your hearing, Charlie? We're doing well here. More than well. Consider it a welcome-home present."

At that moment they heard the sounds of Carl coming downstairs. He limped into the kitchen wearing a dark gray suit and gave his wife a hearty good-morning kiss. When they parted, Maggie's cheeks were flushing a delicate pink and her eyes were bright. Charlie looked uncomfortably down at his plate, feeling more like an intruder every moment.

"Off to the farm, Charlie?" Carl asked. He sat down beside his wife, stealing a slice of bacon over her ineffectual protests.

He nodded. "Just an inspection tour," he said with a crooked smile. "And I might have a look for this dam Malcolm has built."

"Be careful if you do," Carl warned. "Old Malcolm gets a mite touchy where his property is concerned."

Charlie drained his cup of coffee and stood up.

"So do I."

Charlie stood in the farmyard and waved as Carl drove back down the road that led to town, then turned around and inspected the house. Two stories tall and solidly built of red brick, it projected a sense of decent, sturdy prosperity. The green-painted shutters framed the many windows, and an open porch ran around three sides.

He opened the front door and wandered through the rooms, running his hands along the lovingly-polished furniture as the ghosts of the past crowded his mind. Dependable Frank, who had hacked out his life during the flu outbreak ten years ago. Tiny Elizabeth, who he remembered as a warm bundle and a sweet smile in his arms. And two others he had never met; John and Andrew, spoken of softly, if at all, by his parents.

And his father, who had died while he was in France. He remembered that last night before he left for the army.

June, 1917

"You don't have to go, you know," Josiah Schuler said quietly. They were sitting in the kitchen, eating the blueberry pie Mama had made for his last night at home. Maggie and Carl, only seven months married, had retired to the parlor to give the two of them some time alone. His mother had likewise left the table, giving her husband a single fulminating glance as she exited the room.

"Actually, I do, sir," Charlie said with a painful smile. His father had been hinting around the subject for a couple of weeks. He was glad he had finally brought it up. "I don't think the United States Army would have a whole lot of sympathy if I told it I had changed my mind. And how would I hold my head up around town? I would always be the coward who stayed home."

His father sighed, his face tight. "I just wish you had spoken to me before you volunteered, Charles. I need your help here. I'm not as young as I used to be. And help is going to be harder to hire with all the young men volunteering to join this madness."

His hand reached out and gripped his son's. Startled, Charles looked into his father's eyes, seeing the terrible fear he had of losing his sole remaining son.

"The Schulers left the old country to get away from this, Charlie. Why are you rushing towards it? The country needs farmers to grow food. If you stay here you will be far more useful to the war effort than you will ever be over there. Here, you can help feed thousands. Over there, you will be just another body to stop a bullet. And what happens to the farm if you die? Who is going to take care of the land as it deserves?"

He returned his father's grip, looking into his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, the words torn painfully out of his throat. "I know you want me to stay. But this is something I have to do.

"Besides," he said lightly, trying to change the mood, "Once the Kaiser sees us, he won't be able to surrender fast enough. I probably won't even be sent overseas. You'll see, Father. I'll be back before you know it."

Josiah sat back in his chair, his face sad and tired.

"I hope so, Charlie. I hope so."

Charlie stood up. "I'm going to take a walk down to the creek. I'll be back in a little while."

"Saying good-bye to Lily?" his father asked, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

Charlie shrugged. "I've said good-bye to everyone else. I should say good-bye to her, too."

The present...

Well, you were right, Father, Charlie thought bitterly, as he fetched up in the parlor. Morning sunlight shone on the hardwood floor and picked out bright colors on the rag rugs Maggie and his mother had woven on long winter nights. And it's a miracle I'm not buried over there. I just wish you were here so I could tell you how right you were.

He climbed the back stairs, past the bedrooms on the second floor, and emerged on the widow's walk on the roof. From this vantage point he could see for miles in any direction over the softly rolling Minnesota countryside. South, towards town; north, where a faint green haze showed where the winter wheat was coming up; West, where rows of freshly plowed furrows showed where the barley had been planted; and east, where a line of trees showed the line of the creek.

Mine, he thought with a feeling of vast responsibility. All mine. He wanted to capture the moment and hold it in his heart forever. But movement near the barns caught his eye. Several young men his own age were moving back and forth, taking care of the stock.

Well, better make my introductions.

Two hours later he was walking towards the creek.

The men who Maggie, Carl, and his mother had hired looked dependable, and the state of the stock and the crops did nothing to make him think otherwise. The small herd of dairy cows, the six pigs, and the chickens all appeared in excellent health. The plow-horses, Star, Socks, Shadow, and Sunbeam, were standing contentedly in their stalls, happy that plowing season was behind them. He promised them a trip into town to pick up supplies later in the day.