Seven

The days pass.

With each day, David’s ankle is healing.

The morphine has run out, but in its place, Rebecka has been feeding him a constant supply of a special black tea. Every day she chops and grinds at the stove, concocting that rather strange-smelling liquid in a small pot.

Although it smells unpleasant, David has to concede that the tea more than takes the edge off the pain.

“It’s something my mother used to make us when we were ill,” Rebecka explains. “And her mother taught her, before that. We have this very special flower here, it only grows on the western half of the island. Nobody knows why but it will not grow on this side. Look.”

She holds up a very bizarre looking flower. It is purple-black. He thinks it looks like a dragon’s head.

“It can work miracles, you know, if prepared properly,” she says.

He even wonders if it is helping his ankle to heal faster, for after a couple of weeks, he can hobble slowly down the corridor, and even get downstairs, though that hurts a lot.

*   *   *

The days pass.

They give David some old clothes of Erik’s to wear. Just to be on the safe side. They are big for him, and he feels silly. And more than that, it’s odd to wear another man’s clothes, especially when that man seems to hate you. But it makes sense.

“Maybe Benjamin is more your size,” Rebecka says, looking him up and down. At that moment Benjamin walks into the kitchen.

“Well,” says Rebecka, “Speak of the Devil and his horns appear. What do you think, should we give David some of your clothes instead?”

“I think he looks just fine as he is,” says Benjamin solemnly, and then bursts out laughing.

Rebecka chases him off, batting at his head with a large wooden spoon.

*   *   *

The days pass.

David gets better, but the mood in the house gets worse.

The arguments continue; David can hear them at night, along the corridor from his room. He knows he needs to do something, but he has no idea what. When he can walk, he can just walk away, even if it means walking into captivity. Or worse.

Over mealtimes, no one speaks.

Even Skilla is quiet, lurking in the shadows under the table.

*   *   *

Eventually, David can stand the atmosphere no longer, and after they have finished their evening meal of chicken stew and black bread, with great effort, he stands up.

He looks at the three whose lives he is endangering.

“Throw me out,” he says. “I can’t bear this, and I can’t be responsible for your safety. Put me in a cart and drop me back in the fields somewhere. I’ll fight my way out of this. I’ve done it before.”

He has done no such thing, but it makes him feel brave to say it.

No one says anything; then finally, Erik clears his throat.

“Sit down, David Thompson,” he says.

Then Erik gets up, and leaves.

“Benjamin, help your mother,” he says, as he goes. “I have work to do.”

Rebecka puts her hand on Benjamin’s shoulder.

“Go with your father,” she says. “I can manage here.”

When the men are gone, David sits again. He does so with great relief—he is almost weeping from the pain of standing on his ankle.

“What is it?” he asks, when he gets his breath again.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not just this war. This war that you say you are not a part of. You may not want to be a part of the war, but you are part of the world. And the world is at war. It’s not a question of what you want.”

Rebecka says nothing. She clears up for a while, then turns to look at David, dishcloth in hand, leaning back against the sink.

“Erik says…”

“What? That I am dangerous? That I will get you into trouble? He might be right, you know. Maybe you should listen to your husband. Throw me out before soldiers come looking for me.”

“No one knows you are here.”

“Are you sure? What about the other villagers? Did no one see me arrive? Is no one wondering why Benjamin is sleeping in the barn on sacks of grain?”

Rebecka doesn’t answer that.

“He is not a bad man,” she says instead, quietly.

“I never said he was.”

“But you are right. It is not just the war. None of us want the war, but, you are right, there is something else.”

David feels the tension in her voice, and feels his own heart beating. He knows what she is about to say.

“You may have seen there is an empty room upstairs…”

She stops, puts a hand to her mouth, shakes her head, and clears her throat.

“Benjamin is—was—not our only child. We had a daughter, too. Her name was Sarah. She was twelve years old. One day, two summers ago, planes flew overhead. They were being chased by your people. They were fighting.”

Her voice lowers a little, but she presses on.

“We were out in the fields, we ran for cover. Then the planes dropped their bombs. Benjamin says they only did it to be lighter, so they could fly faster, and escape. He has read about it. And they did escape, but they let their bombs fall on the island first.”

Rebecka’s voice is a whisper now—David’s own heartbeat is louder than her words.

“Sarah was at the farm. She ran to the woodsheds. One of the bombs fell right there.”

She turns back to the sink, wringing the dishcloth.

“That is why Erik is so angry. This war, that none of us want, took our girl away from us. What had she done? Why her?”

She looks David in the eye, tears running down her face.

She whispers, “Why?”