Fog: Switch

Another addition to my Fog series (1 and 2). 

Arthur's departure the next morning contained few tears, for those had been used up in the night. Instead, Father gave him a slap on the back and a manly hug, Mother gave him a kiss (after fussing about making sure he'd packed enough warm clothes for the winter), and Gwenny and I gave him big hugs. There wasn't much talking (it was too early in the morning for that) but Father put his hands on Art's head and blessed him before setting out. To this day I cannot remember exactly what he said because I was too busy trying not to cry to listen.

Father gave Charger, his old chestnut war horse, to Arthur as a parting gift. Charger was getting on in years and had an insufferable sweet tooth, but was the most able-bodied horse we had, besides Old Hannah, who was a sweet, caramel-colored old thing who'd been in the family for as long as I could remember. Sweet, but slow as molasses in January. I wished Father had given the mare to Arthur so he would be too slow to be in front. Perhaps if he stayed in the back, he would come home safe.

Finally, the goodbyes had been said, the last hugs had been given, and nothing more stood between us and the moment we'd all been dreading. Arthur leapt onto Charger's broad back with ease, and I could tell by his straight back and the way he held his head up that he was proud to be riding off to war on the horse his father had ridden. I couldn't help but smile (tearfully) at his pride and admire his courage.

Then we were waving and blowing kisses and shouting "God bless you!" at his back as rode away down the worn dirt path through the woods. He looked back once, at first, to wave but then kept his face set forward.

All was silent when we turned back into the house. Mother began to prepare breakfast and Gwenny and I assisted her, for once without being asked. Father went away to his room, carrying the large, leather-bound family Bible, and didn't return until the breakfast bell had been rung.

***

Weeks and months passed. Christmas was around the corner but I could tell nobody felt much like doing anything without Arthur. Every tradition was followed, the tree chopped and set in the parlor, the cookies baked and kept away from prying hands, and the cranberry garlands made and hung round the pine branches. But I knew father felt Arthur's absence keenly when he had to ask me to help carry the tree home. And The house seemed silent without Arthur's pleas for Christmas cookies. The garland-making, also, was different, for our brother had always helped Gwenny and I string the spicy red berries together.

No letters came. The mail each day was greeted with held breath, but each day, father set it down again, face grim. I knew he longed to ride out and fight along with his son, but his leg still pained him to the point of losing consciousness if he so much as walked to town. The grey cloud which had descended on our household when Arthur left seemed to be settling in permanently.

Then, on Christmas Eve, the cloud shifted. Father was giving the blessing over our roast duck, when the front door shook with multiple knocks. Father's chair scraped across the wooden floor as he pushed it back from the table and strode towards the door. Mother motioned for Gwenny and I to stay seated, so I scooted my chair over to get a good view.

Father pulled the door open to let in a gust of snow and a glimpse of a tall, sturdily built man wrapped in tattered winter wear. He seemed frozen on the doorstep for a moment, and then, as if the warm house had thawed him, melted to the ground at my father's feet.

Hoping wildly that it was Arthur, back from the war, I stood abruptly and crossed the distance to the door. As Father lifted the man up and slung his arm around his shoulder, I closed the door and assisted father as he dragged the stranger to a chair in front of the fire. Mother and Gwenny had vacated the table and were putting a kettle of water on to boil. Father and I stood by the man slumped in the chair, waiting for him to open his eyes. His entire face was swathed in faded and frozen green cloth except a slit for his eyes.  I dearly wanted to reach down and pull the cloth from his face and see Arthur, home again. I clenched my hands together to keep them from shaking when the stranger stirred.

He opened his eyes. They were grey, but Arthur's had always looked grey in certain light. The man focused on me first, and right then I knew, even without seeing his face, that this man was not Arthur. There was no recognition in those eyes.