Manor of Shadows, Chapter Two, six to nine Pages: I do not want to bring the wrath of my brothers and my sisters; and still less of Aeus - our current Guide - and its Senior Advisors. I want at all costs to keep my peace and my serenity so dearly acquired. When I moved into the building, I decided that I would never interférerai institutions with which I belong. I had great difficulty me away. Many of my brothers and my sisters tried to hold me to the Shrine and make me change my mind. Some have also threatened me with retaliation if I avoided it, and leaving. I even remember that one of them used his influence with Yrgael, one of the most influential insiders in the entourage of Delmocène, so I bend to their demands. I also remember that terrible night before my departure locations: Until the darkness fades, a storm enveloped the Shrine and its surroundings. Lightning streaked the sky have for hours, illuminating the window of my cell as in daylight. Thunder boomed, wind gusts and rain slammed furiously against the glass, I woke up regularly. And having got to sleep, my sleep was populated fears as I did had not known since childhood. Episodes experienced at the beginning of my adolescence, during the Second World War have resurfaced. I saw people who are dear to me die in fire bombings. Fleeting moments of the exodus of May and June 1940 are taxed at me. Among them, an incredible scene was probably repeated a hundred times: My father, my mother, my sister - Sidonie-my two brothers - Benjamin and Samuel - and I walk along a stony path. Its been days since we left the Parisian region. We head to the Swiss border. Around us, fields of wheat ready to be harvested to discern everywhere. The sky is bright blue. Off, it is dotted with clouds that stringy waves. Beyond the hills two or three miles from us, the bell tower and the roofs of the largest houses in the village - Pierrefontaine-les-Kingsnake probably - are revealed. Before and behind us, queues of people in dirty clothes - as if they had not left for days - forward. Their eyes are surrounded by fatigue. The face of most men shows a three-day beard. Many women, young and old, before they grow ragged brats weeping bitterly. Some take one, maybe two, children aged between three months and two years in their arms. They try somehow to reassure them, but do not always manage it. If this is the endless sobbing toddlers, dead silence accompanies the refugee convoy which we belong. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, a deafening roar filled the air above our heads. Of alarm cries echo immediately. People start running in all directions. Some throw themselves into the ditch along the road. Others rush in the fields. Many of them slip between the stalks of wheat and disappear. I stand there a dozen hurrying to avoid being the target gear now cracking the horizon before us. Everyone has recognized the black crosses are drawing on their wings. This is Stukas. And everyone remembers the carnage they have committed on the roads of Northern France, where Belgian, Dutch or Polish have ebbed mass there several weeks ago. The characteristic sound of their engines and their sirens blaring intended to cause panic, sound. Their machine guns into action and mow all those unlucky enough to cross their lines of sight. Around my father, my mother, Sidonie, Benjamin, Samuel, and myself, anonymous body crumble; sometimes an exclamation of surprise or a cry of terror. Personally, I noticed a half-dozen group of women protecting their offspring mass, so they are unaffected by fusing bullets whistling around them. Far away, another is on his knees, his hands clasped, and requests; she murmured incoherent words resembling Hail Mary .... Not far from us, my eyes linger momentarily until a man who pulled a cart filled with furniture, personal effects and various miscellaneous objects. His face half ripped off by a discharge of projectiles. Soon, they are accompanied by explosions scattered. We recognize immediately. These are the shells which are Stukas holders. They rain down around us, and are instantly followed by deafening explosions. There, a motor vehicle is thrown into the air before falling in flames. Moreover, a cluster of men, women and children is shredded. Elsewhere, they are old men who have not had time to put away that burn like chaff. But this is not to say that dumps guns stop. I want to prove that, when my gaze turns to the members of my family, I realize that my father was hit. Huddled on the floor, tablecloths blood flooding his arms and torso. His face is streaked with crimson trace, and his right eye came out of its orbit; still hangs in the related nerve inside his skull. His jaw was partially washed away by the blast. His clothes were in places were burned. Minor fumaroles are not yet distinguished. His pants are tattered and down his left leg - the foot to the top of the knee - lies two meters of him. As for my mother, Sidonie, Benjamin and Samuel, they stand a charred tree found near the edge of the road. My mother is in shock. It clings to its trunk, mouth open, his face distorted with terror. A murmur escaped his lips, while his eyes are glued to my father. My sister and my two brothers, themselves, hiding in her skirts and trying in vain to hold back their tears. But my sister did not take long to leave in running down her cheeks. Me, I dare not believe it. Cut off from reality, forgetting the massacre continuing around me, I cautiously approach my father. I look at him. I see a light breath come from his throat. Its intact eye closed so far, opens slowly. He tries to smile, but does not succeed. Her lips are just not able to move. This is more of a rictus of pain and sadness I report suggests. Two or three seconds elapse well. Then I have a feeling hes trying to tell me something. I do not know what. No sound escapes his throat and fails to my ears. But for me, for the moment, it does not matter. I gently take her in my arms. At the same time, I see my mother, Benjamin, Samuel and Sidonie scrutinizing my every movement. Im leaning towards him to plant a kiss on the top of his bald forehead. And I start to rock gently. The next morning, when Im finally out of my lethargy, my fatigue had not disappeared. My arms and torso were streaked with bloody scars and traces of recent burns. As if I actually relived overnight this dramatic episode of my life. And my face was covered with a thin film of sweat. I did not wait. As dawn was breaking over the horizon, I dressed. I left the Sanctuary being careful not meeting anyone in its corridors or rooms. Fortunately, the place was still deserted at this hour that morning. I did not even cross Eloi or Tancred, known for pacing the hallway of his library. They were in fact known to roam around at dawn, and there arguing about this or that detail of their treaty being drafted. And, having recovered my car in the parking lot, I left behind me. Since then, I never went back.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Jul 2014 09:45:55 +0000
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