them. You never knew who to trust, and we still don’t. Our side put all we could in internment camps, practically everybody with black eyes and hair and olive skin, but you can’t get them all. And then the war went on so long we used up all our resources, but they still had theirs—sabotage doesn’t ever have to stop. They escaped from the camps. Actually they just walked away. The guards had already walked away, too.
Lots of those men brought their injuries and craziness to our mountains. Both sides came here to get away from everything. They’re hermits. They don’t trust anybody. Some of them are still fighting each other up there. It’s almost as bad as having left-over mine fields. They’re all damaged, physically or mentally. Of course most likely all of us are, too, and we probably don’t even know it.
My brother might be out there somewhere. If he’s alive he’s got to be here. He loves this place. He hunted and trapped and fished. He’d get along fine and I know he’d do anything to come back.
Most of those men don’t come down to us even if they’re starving or cold or sick. Those that do, come to steal. They take our tomatoes and corn and radishes. Other things disappear, too. Kitchen knives, spoons, fishhooks…. And of course sweaters and woolen socks…. Those crazies live up even higher than we do. It does still get cold up there.
And they are crazies. And now one of them has been killing other men and dumping them at the edge of the village. They’ve all been shot in the back by wooden crossbow darts. Beautifully carved and polished. I hope it isn’t one of our side. Though I don’t suppose sides matter anymore.
Every time this happens, before we put them into the depository, I go to check if it’s my brother. I wouldn’t want my brother in the depository. Ever. But those men are always such a mess—dirty and bearded—I wonder, would I recognize him? I keep thinking: How could I not? But I was only fifteen when he left. He was eighteen. He’d be thirty-two now. If he’s alive.
We’re all a little edgy even if it’s not us getting killed. And then last night I saw someone looking in my window. I’d been asleep but I heard a noise and woke up. I saw the silhouette of a lumpy hat and a mass of tangled hair flying out from under it, the moonlit sky glowing behind. I called out, “Clement!” I didn’t mean to. I was half asleep and in that state I knew it was my brother. Whoever it was ducked down in a hurry and I heard the crunch, crunch of somebody running away. Afterwards I got scared. I could have been shot as I slept.
The next morning I saw footprints and it looked like somebody had spent some time behind my shed.
I keep hoping it’s my brother, though I wouldn’t want him to be the one killing those poor men, but you’d think he wouldn’t be afraid of coming to his own house. Of course he doesn’t know that Mother is dead. I can understand him being afraid of her. They never got along. When she was drunk she used to throw things at him. If he got close enough, she’d grab his arm and twist. Then he got too strong for her. But he couldn’t be afraid of me. Could he? I’m the baby sister.
Mother was nicer to me. She got worried I’d stay out of reach or not help anymore. I could have just walked off and left her but until she died I didn’t think of it. I actually didn’t. I’d looked after her for so long I thought that’s just the way life is. And I might not have left, anyway. She was my mother and there was nobody else to look after her but me.
If it’s my brother been looking in the window, he must know Mother isn’t here. She never left her bed. The house is small and all on one floor so he could have looked in all the windows. We have three tiny bedrooms, and one kitchen/living room combined. Mother and her big bed took up wall to wall space in the biggest bedroom.
I posted Clement’s picture at the store and the library, but of course it was a picture from long ago. In it he has the usual army shaved head. I drew a version with wild hair. Then I drew another of him bald with wild hair around the sides. (Baldness runs in our family.) I drew a different kind of beard on each of them. I put up both versions.
Leo at the store said, “He might not want to talk to you… or anybody.”
But I know that already.
“I think he’s come looking in my window.”
“Well, there you are. He’d a come in if he’d wanted to.”
“You went to war. How come you’re okay and most all the other men have gone wild?”
“I was lucky. I never saw real horror.”
Actually he may not be so okay. Most of us never married. We never had the chance with all the men gone. He could have married one of us but he never did. He lives in a messy shed behind the store and he smells, even though the ditch passes right by his store. And he’s always grumpy. You have to get used to him.
“If my brother comes around, tell him I’m going out to look for him in all his favourite spots.”
“Even if you find him he won’t come back.”
“So then I’ll go after that crazy person who’s been killing those men.”
Truth is, I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to live with just me to care about. I can go anywhere and do anything. I ought to find the man who’s the killer. I have nothing else to do. Who better to do it than I?
But I might find that man right here, hiding at the edge of the village—or most likely looking in my window. Maybe I can trap him in my house. He must have been looking in for a reason.
I pack up and pretend to leave. I stay out of sight of the village. This is wild rock land—lots of hiding places. Nobody will know I didn’t go anywhere. My backpack is mostly empty. I have pepper. Pepper is hard to get these days so I’ve saved mine for a weapon. I have a small knife in my boot and a bigger one at my belt. Streams aren’t stocked anymore but there’s still fish around, though not as many as before. I bring a line and hooks. I’ll use those today. I won’t go far.
I catch a trout. I have to make a fire the old-fashioned way. No more matches. I always carry a handful of dead sage fibres for tinder. I cook the fish and eat after dark and the half-moon comes up, I sneak back to our house as if I was one of those crazies myself.
The door is wide open. There’s sand all over the floor. Couldn’t he even shut the door? These days we have sand storms and dust devils more often than we use to. Doesn’t whoever it is know that? And that’s another reason to move higher up into the trees where it’s less deserty.
I smell him before I see him. I put my knife up my sleeve so it’ll drop down into my hand.
I can hear him breathing. Sounds like scared breathing. A man this frightened will be dangerous.
He’s huddled in Mother’s bedroom down between the bed and the bedside table. All I see is his hat, pulled low so his face is in shadow. I see his bare knees showing through his torn pants. I have a better look at them than his face.
Right away I think my brother wouldn’t be in Mother’s room, he’d be in his own room. Besides, the room still smells of death and dying. I call, “Clement?” even though I know it can’t be him. “Come on out.”
He groans.
“Are you sick?” He sounds sick. I suppose that’s why he’s here in the first place. I wish I’d lit a lamp first. I was counting on the moonlight, but there isn’t much shining in here. It still could be my brother, under all that dirt and wild hair and beard, gone crazy just like everybody else.
“Come out. Come to the main room. I’ll light a lamp. I’ll fix you food.”
“No light.”
“Why not? There’s only me. And there’s no war going on anymore. It’s most likely over.”
“I pledged to fight until I died.” (I suppose my brother did, too.)
I finger my knife. “I’m going to go light the lamp.”
I deliberately turn my back. I go to the main room, light the lamp with the sparker, keeping my back to the bedroom door. I hear him come in. I turn and get a good look.
Pieced-together hat, long scraggly hair hanging under it. I can’t tell if he’s a brown man or just weather- beaten, sunburned, and dirty. A full beard with grit in it. Eyes as black as the enemy’s always are. Eyebrows just as thick as theirs. He has a broken front tooth. Nowadays that’s not unusual. Nobody to fix them. He has a greenish look under his tan and dark circles around his eyes. If he thinks he isn’t sick he doesn’t know much.
“You are the enemy. And you’re half-dead already.”
There’s a chair right beside him, but he sinks sideways to the floor. Ends up flat on our worn linoleum. If he thinks he’s still fighting the war, I should kill him now while I have the chance. He looks such a mess and smells so bad I’m almost ready to kill him just for those reasons alone. After Mother died I thought I was finished with
