Short Story: Melisande

Melisande was suddenly and very lucidly awake and had no idea why. She lay very still, listening intently, for whatever it was that had intruded upon her sleep. She did not open her eyes or change her breathing for fear that she would give away where she was hiding.

She smelled smoke. She heard the crackle and snap of fire but knew she had put hers out before going to bed. She did not hear any movement, no boots on the floorboards or on the gravel of the courtyard. She did not hear any kind of communications, no static from a radio or barking of commands. There were no sounds of engines idling or moving down the road. There was simply the smell of smoke and the crackle and snap of fire.

Cautiously she opened one eye to a mere slit. She saw nothing except the old, cobwebbed timbers and crumbling plaster of the attic that was her hiding space. Remaining motionless, she opened both eyes. As they adjusted she saw that shadows were moving across the plaster, dancing as if thrown by a fire. The smell of smoke was stronger and now tinged with the scent of burning oil.

In one fluid motion Melisande silently rolled out of her makeshift bed and picked up the Lebel model 1886 rifle that was leaning against the wall. She checked to make sure the safety was off and slipped her feet into her boots. Crouching, she made her way to the leaded glass window in the eave and peered over the sill.

The sight she beheld made no sense. A huge bonfire like conflagration was burning in the old wheat field. Numerous smaller fires dotted the field around it. A large, shallow trench led from the larger bonfire to one about half its size that was on the edge of the farmyard. This was what she had smelled and heard. This was what had sent the dancing shadows across the plaster. This was what woke her up.

Melisande quietly went down the stairs to the ground floor. She eased open the door that closed the stairs off from the kitchen and looked cautiously into the room. It was empty except for a rippling mix of shadow and light from the fire outside. She moved to the windows that looked out onto the farmyard. She looked at the burning debris but still couldn’t figure out what had happened.

She slowly opened the kitchen door and stepped onto the gravel of the farmyard. The burning mass in front of her looked like a hunk of twisted metal and glass. The heat from the fire was almost unbearable. The smell of burning oil clogged her nose and the thick smoke made her eyes water. She looked left and right through the tears but saw no one else around.

Where could it have come from? Better yet, what is it, she thought as she walked towards the trench it had left in the earth. She slung her rifle over her shoulder as she inspected the scorched ground. The smell of diesel was strong; the ground was soaked with it. She wondered why it hadn’t caught fire like everything else.

She turned towards the gigantic burning form in the wheat field. It seemed to be the only place she was going to find an explanation so she headed towards it. As she drew closer the shape became more defined. Vague contours slowly transformed into a ruptured fuselage, shattered windows, and a mangled rudder. Except the rudder area wasn’t just mangled. It looked like there had been an enclosure of some sort there, which had shattered as if it were made of glass. It also seemed to have something sticking out of it, something that reminded her of her rifle. It was impossible to tell what it was, though. The impact and subsequent fire had pretty much destroyed anything on this side that would identify it.

As Melisande skirted the rear of the burning mass, she saw that the fire hadn’t spread as much on the far side. Clarity hit like a burst of bullets from a Messerschmitt. It was an airplane, or rather pieces of an airplane. The markings on what was left of the rear fuselage were not German. She moved as close as the heat from the flames would allow so she could get a better view. They looked British. She moved back from the wreckage, taking in the bigger picture.

The pieces of the puzzle abruptly fell into place in her mind. A British airplane crashed in her field. There could only be one reason. The Germans had shot it down. And if the Germans shot it down then it had either been on its way to or from a bombing raid on Germany. Considering the state of the aircraft she doubted there were any survivors. Just as well because the crash would not have gone unnoticed by the local German military patrol. They would be here soon to investigate and confiscate anything they felt was salvageable from the debris.

She looked back towards the rudder and now saw that the shattered enclosure was actually the plane’s rear gun turret. She turned and walked along the fuselage looking for anything she could salvage and safely hide before the Germans arrived. She didn’t see anything useful, at least nothing anyone would take in trade for milk or eggs on the black market.

As she approached the burning mass on the edge of the farmyard she realized that it was the plane’s cockpit. It was completely engulfed in flames now. The fabric covering its metal ribs was almost entirely burned off and the farmyard was thick with its acrid smoke. It made her eyes water and she found it difficult to breathe. She shouldered her rifle to pull her shirt over her nose to try to filter some of it out.

That was when she heard the weak, scraping sound coming from the direction of the old icehouse. She knew she didn’t have much time left before the Germans showed up but she had to find out what was making that noise. Maybe there was a survivor! If the Germans got a hold of a British soldier they were as good as dead. She couldn’t have that on her conscience.

As she navigated through the smoke and burning debris she saw what looked like drag marks in the gravel. There were dark smears and droplets along the path but her eyes were watering so badly that she couldn’t tell if it was blood, oil, or diesel fuel. The smoke was so thick she wondered if one of the farm buildings had caught on fire.

When she reached the icehouse she saw that the drag marks stopped at the door. There was a single, partial handprint in blood on the doorjamb, as if someone had leaned there. The drag marks then moved around the right side of the building, between it and the hay shed. Melisande looked around for something, anything, which would remove the incriminating handprint from the doorjamb. She found a rag draped over the side of an old rain barrel. She dampened it and washed the doorjamb as fast as she could.

Her sense of urgency was growing. There was little time left before the German patrol would appear. If there were survivors, and that looked very likely now, she had to find them quickly. She had to hide them and erase any signs of their existence. The Germans were good at finding things; especially things they knew were there but hidden.

She almost tripped over him as she followed the drag marks around the side of the building. He had propped himself up against the wall and was holding a pistol in his lap. Their eyes met, his full of fear and pain. He tried to raise the pistol but, having used all his strength to escape the burning plane, promptly passed out instead.

She knelt to see if he was still alive and was relieved to find a pulse. She hastily checked his injuries and saw that some were serious. He needed immediate medical attention. Unfortunately that would have to wait until after the German patrol came and went. Her priority was to hide him because if the Germans found him it wouldn’t matter if he got medical attention.

She picked him up and carried him into the house.