Armistice

By Erik Peters

Two months after leaders signed the official armistice amid the rubble of the capital, news came that we would leave the ford and return to the city garrison. The infantry were ecstatic. Half were stumbling before lunch. Father Cyrill and I stood by what had once been the bridge.

         “I still can’t believe it’s over,” I said, enjoying the tingle in my fingers.

         “It is not over,” retorted the priest in thick accents.

         “What’re you talking about, Padre? They signed the deal ages ago. You seen anybody ‘cept villagers over there?” I waved across the river.

         Father Cyrill cleared his throat. “Soldiers do not make a war. War is in the heart of every man of the land.”

         “Pffft,” I took a sip of cheap local spirit. “If the peasants over there are like the ones here they’ll be glad it’s over.”

         “Let us pray,” Father Cyrill said, fingering the heavy metal crucifix that dangled where most men of his age have a paunch. “Let us pray. But it is not over. Paper is cheap. I tell you, my son–”

         “I’m not your son. We’re not even from the same–”

         “I tell you, it is not over. Not in you and not in your comrades. You will see.”

         “You’re just upset ‘cause everyone else is drunk and you’re not.”

         “Who says I’m not?”

         I eyed his leathery face. “You Polaks can hide anything.”

         He was silent. I took another drink and kicked gravel. The sun was sinking toward the ridge on the other side of the river. Long shadows from the abandoned enemy fortification groped for our boots. I shuffled backward. Father Cyrill let the shadow grip his feet.

         “Okay,” I said at length, “but here’s a question: how’d we win anyway? I mean, they were building this huge thing and we couldn’t have held off an attack. The fact that they gave up despite that shows just how thoroughly we won!”

         “You do not win games. You only lose later.”

         “That’s not true. In college I won lots of foot–”

         Father Cyrill shook his head. “No. You outlasted. You did not win. If one team tires, it loses. You make mistakes when you are tired. You get desperate. You gamble. That is why games are short. But this, this is real life. There is no end-whistle.”

         “What about chess? That’s not–”

         “Your mind does not tire?”

         “What about dice games?”

         “You do not really play dice games, the dice play. You only cheer.”

         “So perhaps divine dice lost for them?”

         “Then why should we celebrate? In real life there are no dice games,” the fortification’s shadow crawled up his cassock. I could feel its dark cold on my boots. “They grew tired. They could not pay any longer. They had no energy. No will for more. So they gave up, even when they might have won. If they had had two more days’ energy…” he shrugged and turned toward the barracks, “who knows.”

         I frowned. “You’re a strange man, father. Too much theology, not enough reality. They had money, that’s why they were building up strength here. They lost to the fourth division up at La Costa and the line was broken. The war’s over.”

         He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Let us pray.”

                                    ***

         The former line opened before we broke camp. Villagers from San Sebastian built a makeshift bridge across which carts and waggons flowed. I stood at my post, scanning the passers-by for anything suspicious. It was impossible to tell who was from our side and who was from San Cristobal over the ridge. I tried to start a conversation with Magdelena, a pretty girl from San Sebastian, as she passed, but she only smiled. Father Cyrill rode down the slope in an oxcart. He nodded solemnly to my wave, then buried himself in a heavy volume.

         A man and a boy stopped at the post to adjust their haversacs.

         “Hello,” I said in the local dialect. “Where are you going?”

         “San Sebastian, sir,” said the man.

         “What are you carrying?”

         “Mostly leather and shoes, sir.”

         “Why are you carrying those?”

         “I am a cobbler. Before the war, I served both sides of the river. Perhaps my customers still remember.”

         “And the boy?”

         “He is my son.”

         I smiled at the boy. “How old are you? What is your name?”

         The boy looked up at his father who nodded. “I have ten years, sir. My name is Augustino.”

         “Pleased to meet you, Augustino. Tell me, how does your village fair?”

         The boy wrinkled his brow.

         “Better now, sir,” said the man. “But the fighting has been hard. Much has been destroyed.”

         “Much has been built,” I waved at the fortifications.

         The man’s face darkened. “It is built of our town.”

         I pretended to adjust my pips. “I did not know you were pillaged.”

         “They were not cruel. They did not pillage our goods or our women. By the north end of the wall,” he gestured to where a Mauser barrel protruded. “That is built of the bricks of my home. We have slept with the cows ever since.”

         “I am very sorry.”

         He shrugged. “So were their soldiers. They were not cruel. Sometimes they compelled us to move bricks, but if we hid in the hills for a day they forgot. They were not cruel, only tired.”

         “Well, at least now you can get the bricks back and start rebuilding.”

         He reshouldered his haversac. “Who can say. The new government will need bricks for the bridge. Thank you for your conversation, sir. We must continue. Come, Augustino.”

         They trudged on. I stared at the cracked pylons over which the villagers had made a ramshackle crossing. To rebuild it, the new government would certainly need all the masonry from the fortification. Probably more.

                                    ***

         The night before we shipped out soldiers filled the San Sebastian inn hall. A private’s salary went a long way in a mountain town and Captain McCrae was in a lenient humour: dishevelled uniforms and open holsters were tolerated amid singing and drinking.

         I leaned on the bar, watching a game of blackjack. Corporal Hull dealt and called the ante. Each man looked at his cards and glanced round the table. Captain McCrae folded immediately.

         “Nada,” he said with a yawn.

         The ante grew. One by one men folded, some with looks of disgust, most with only weary headshaking. DeSmith won and Hull dealt another hand. By the fourth deal several men sulked, their money spent. The majority simply got tired of losing and left to be replaced by more energetic peers.

         “How does one play?” came a high voice. Augustino stood beside me.

         “Oh, well, they all bet some money. Then more cards are played and they can choose to bet again or stop.”

         “It seems silly to give up if you have already bet money. How do you win?”

         “You do not win,” said Father Cyrill, materialising out of the shadows, his oversized cassock waving about his feet.

         I winked at Augustino, “Old Father Cyrill’s just grumpy because he lost all his money last week. At the end of the game everyone reveals his cards. Whoever has the highest score wins.”

         “What if the one with the highest score has already given up?”

         “Then he does not win.”

         “So… it is not about the cards at all…”

         Father Cyrill’s face creaked into a smile. “They like the excitement. But excitement is tiring.”

         We watched the game. Father Cyrill hung over the boy.

         “I must find Papa,” said Augustino.

         “Good night,” I said.

         “Oh, we are not leaving,” he said, skipping toward the musicians. Father Cyrill waited a moment, then followed.

         I watched Magdalena collecting mugs and taking orders, notes and coins bulged in her fitted smock. I waved, but she was too busy to talk.

                                    ***

         Most of the officers cleared out before midnight, leaving the younger, more energetic, infantrymen and Father Cyrill. Magdalena raced back and forth, expertly balancing mugs on her metal tray.

         “Give us a dance,” roared DeSmith, swatting at her backside.

         “I dance only for handsome men,” she laughed over her shoulder.

         As she did, the tray slid from her hand and clattered to the floor.

         A shock ran through me. The hall reeled. Father Cyrill’s cassock flew like a wraith. Lamps flickered like gunfire at night. I jumped, tumbled: retreating down the ridgeside toward the river. Screams echoed amid mechanical pounding. I landed hard. Shells sparkled in the dark. My service revolver clicked empty. Sparkling glass covered the floor. The inn hall was thick with smoke.

         Megalena lay motionless in the centre of the room. All around empty revolvers and wide eyes peered from behind fortifications of upturned tables. To my left, Augustino lay, curled and trembling, shielded by the lifeless and bloodied form of Father Cyrill.

         Amid the rubble of the distant capital, government officials determined that Magdalena and Father Cyrill were not casualties of war.

         “Because,” they said, “we signed the armistice months earlier.”

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Erik Peters is a teacher and avid mediaevalist from Canada. Erik's work has been published in numerous magazines including The NonBinary Review, Orange Blossom, Takahe, The Louisville Review, and The Dead Mule School. Read all Erik's publications at www.erikpeters.ca or @erikpeterswrites.