Human for a Day (9781101552391) by Jennifer (EDT) Martin Harry (EDT); Brozek Greenberg Page A

friends.”
    The sense of urgency grew as the line wavered once again but the call of duty was still strong, and so he crouched before the aged soldier and took one hand in his, drawing out his memories of battle, one by one. “The candle flame is coming closer,” he whispered. “Can you see it?”
    Clem’s haunted gaze drew inward. “Yes, but . . .”
    â€œHush. Can you hear the bugle sound the ending of the day?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd do you see them, the lines of the fallen, your fallen, moving off into the distance?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œFollow them.”
    He left the old man’s body slumped in his chair and walked away without looking back. Rooms marched along either side of a long, somberly painted hallway; bedrooms, some with two beds, some with four, not a hospital although he could sense that many of the people in the rooms were ill, and some were dying. At the far end of the hall, he turned and stared into a final room to see a wizened old woman nestled in a pile of brightly crocheted afghans staring back at him. He saw the trenches in her eyes and heard the hiss of gas and felt the fear and the resolve they shared and knew he’d found the one he sought.
    Her rheumy eyes traveled down the length of him as he approached her bedside.
    â€œAre you Death?” she asked as Clem had asked. “I saw Death on the TV once and he looked like you, a pretty boy in uniform.”
    He shook his head. “Not Death,” he answered.
    â€œGood, ‘cause if you were, you could go take a flying leap,” she snarled. “I’m not going anywhere.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “I can see that blasted candle shining in the darkness, just like in the old days,” she stated. “You know. You were there. I can see you were. You got some mud and you built a little shelf and you pressed a candle stub in it and it held up good. In the dug-outs. You remember, don’t you?”
    â€œI remember.” The tiny specks of light, the smell of petrol, and the odor of unwashed bodies. The faces in the darkness holding fear, and hope, and a dreadful, bone-numbing weariness that could never be forgotten.
    She snapped her fingers at him impatiently and he returned his gaze to her.
    â€œStay outta there,” she ordered. “No good can come from memories like that. You wanna see the dying all the time, hear the whizz-bangs and feel the cold mud seep into your bones forever?”
    He shook his head. “No,” he whispered.
    â€œI should think not. Memories like that’ll drive you mad. I oughtta know. I’m 107 last month. Got the letters from the government to prove it. All of them saying congratulations for not dying sooner.” She laughed, a weak, raspy laugh that devolved into coughing. “That’s all they know,” she sputtered once she’d regained her breath. “Hundreds died, thousands, but I didn’t. I promised Arthur that I wouldn’t. I promised him I’d live.” She stared off into space. “I promised him I’d live for both of us.”
    The line grew fainter and for a moment he feared she might reach out for the candle flame at last, but then she shook herself with a rough gesture.
    â€œFetch me the picture on the shelf up there and I’ll tell you a secret I’ve never told anyone in near a century.”
    He brought down a small framed photograph so faded that he could hardly make out the figures standing grinning together, two young soldiers in brown woolen uniforms, arms slung companionably across each other’s shoulders. He turned it over and peered at the fine, black writing.
    â€œArthur and Mark Townsend,” he read out loud, “France, 1918.”
    She closed her eyes and he watched the memories flit across her face. “We were 15, both of us, in 1918,” she whispered. “Only just and we couldn’t wait no longer. We were