A Light From the Ashes Read online

  “Where is she?” Sam asked, almost under his breath.

  “Gemma? She hasn’t lived here in quite some time, Sam.”

  A fear gripped Sam’s heart that he hadn’t felt since the war. That sinking sickness, twisting every organ, dried his mouth and made his head pound. He turned quickly to survey the eyes of his old friend.

  “No, she’s alright, boy. She still lives in the village, just on another farm. Calm down. I should have said that first.”

  Sam took a deep breath in. Then another. His hands on the counter for balance. He stood up straighter, feeling a sense of urgency he couldn’t explain. He needed to see her now.

  “Well, if you’ll point me in the right direction, I’ll go see her. Can Ethan stay here for a while? He needs dinner and could use a bath.” He tousled the boy’s grimy hair.

  “Sam, I should tell you . . .”

  “Can it wait, Z? I just need to get to Gemma for now.”

  “Maybe it’s best this way.” Zacharias placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “The old Tucker place on the other side of the bridge. Remember?”

  “Sure. Hunted squirrels on their place often enough.”

  “The Tuckers left a few years back. Tucker himself was called up for army duty, so they moved the family closer to the Wash District.”

  “That’s too bad. He liked farming.” Sam pulled the books for Gemma out of his pack. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be. But I’ll be back before dark.”

  “Did you notice the lantern poles along the road? Makes it easier to travel than before. One good thing the Corsairs did.”

  “So I did. So I did. Well, I’ll be back in a while.”

  * * * * *

  The old bridge had been fixed and patched in places, so Sam didn’t have to cross it as gingerly as he used to. He remembered jumping on the boards to scare Gemma. Or the time they fell off the railing into the stream below, soaked to the skin, running in the sun to keep warm, falling in the grass out of breath.

  “I’d like to be a writer one day to write about days like this,” Sam panted.

  “Writers don’t exist anymore, silly,” Gemma responded, ever the practical one.

  “They could, one day. Maybe by the time I’m old enough.”

  “The Triumvirate will choose your profession, and you know it. They’ll probably put you in the army.”

  “Because I’m so brave?”

  “To teach you to follow orders,” she laughed. “Now come on. I’ll beat you home!” Her wet brown hair streaming in twisted locks behind her.

  * * * * *

  Gemma knelt in the front garden, pulling the weeds away from the tomatoes warmed by the sun. Sitting back on her heels, she wiped the sweat from her face with her handkerchief, hard work warming her despite the crisp weather. She looked around the garden, trying to calculate how much longer it would take to pull the weeds. She saw a movement over the rise at the fence. A man was passing through her gate. Not quite able to make out the figure, she squinted against the sun. He walked somewhat quickly but seemed to be checking his speed and purposely slowing himself down. He looked down, mumbling slightly to himself. Gemma stood, wiping her hands on her apron before removing it. Her pants showed signs of her interrupted job, despite the apron.

  When the man was a few yards away from her, she thought she recognized something in his face beneath the beard. The man removed his hat, revealing shining green eyes brightened with tears. And as if the tears were contagious, corresponding drops formed in Gemma’s own eyes.

  “Sam,” she whispered. “Oh, it can’t be.”

  As he neared, Sam thought he saw pain in the face of his love. Too many emotions played through her eyes, too quickly for him to register them all. Her hair was pulled back under a handkerchief rather than down around her shoulders as he’d often imagined in this moment. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Gemma was standing directly in front of him. She was a picture, with the wisps of hair around her face lit by the sun. But no photograph could capture that brilliance. She was a poem, though no words could describe her. She was his, but he couldn’t make himself reach out to hold her. So he just stared for a few glorious moments, taking it all in but feeling that he could never get enough.

  Gemma looked down, playing with the apron in her hand, breaking the moment that held them both in stasis. “You’ve changed.” She said the words quietly and matter-of-factly, no judgment, just observation.

  “Seems like a lot’s changed around here,” Sam responded. He noticed a tightness creeping into his shoulders and a knot growing in his stomach. He was more nervous than he had expected to be.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  Sam laughed out loud then. “No matter where I went or how long I was gone, you always asked me that question when I came home. I’d forgotten.”

  “It’s a valid question this time,” she responded quietly.

  “I wish I could describe to you the places I’ve been, what I’ve seen. I wrote you letters. But I guess you didn’t get them.”

  “Never did.”

  “Not even the first one I left with Z?”

  “Dear Gemma. Turns out I have to go to the lumber camp for a while before they’ll give me the marriage license. Two years won’t be too bad. I’ll write you every day. I guess you can keep the oak chest for now. When we’re married, it will be both of ours anyway. Write me.”

  “You memorized it?” Sam was a little surprised at this. Gemma wasn’t one for sentimentality.

  “It’s the only letter I ever received from you. The only word for seven years, Sam. I had started to believe . . . I did believe that you . . .” Her voice broke off. She had one arm around her waist, one hand to her throat, holding herself in.

  “Did you think I wasn’t coming back? That I’d left you?”

  “I thought you were dead!” She almost screamed the words, then took a deep breath in, trying to steady her breathing, stay in control.

  Sam took a step forward, forcing her eyes to meet his. He reached out to touch her arm, but she pulled back.

  “Gemma, sweetheart. I’m here now. I know it’s been a long time. They made me work a full seven years and wouldn’t let me back in the village until my time was served. It seemed strange at the time, but a lot of things seem strange around here. I’m back now, though. That’s all that matters.”

  “I waited the two years. Z and I kept hoping for word from you. Then I waited two more.”

  “Nothing’s changed between us, Gemma. We can . . .”

  “Everything’s changed, Sam,” she whispered. “I’m married.”

  The knot that had been growing in his gut suddenly exploded inside him. The books he’d been clutching tumbled to the ground at their feet. His vision went black for a moment, as surely as if he’d been struck a physical blow.

  “Why?”

  “I thought you were dead. Z was sick and getting more run down. I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone forever. Then after you’d been gone for about two years, Kyle came back.”

  “Kyle?! I thought he was . . .”

  “Yes, the army took him. But he’s been released.”

  “Kyle.” Sam spoke the word that tasted of frightened and hungry days in the woods, harking back to the past before this was his home, before Zacharias. Kyle, his friend turned Corsair.

  “He didn’t have a choice about the army. You know that. Then when he came back, he was kind and helpful.”

  “That’s no reason to marry someone!”

  “I fell in love with him, Sam. I truly did.” Her hands fidgeted with the apron in her hand as she looked at the ground. “It wasn’t the same, though. He wasn’t you.” Taking a deep breath, she looked up with her only defense. “I thought you were dead.”

  Sam stood silently for a few minutes, trying to process the new world he was thrown into. One second and two words had changed his entire existence. He had to force his body to breathe. A pair of birds flew out of a nearby tree, creating a shower of
leaves underneath, which the breeze picked up and carried to another part of the yard. The acrid smell of smoke in the air pierced his nose and his consciousness.

  When he could finally form words again, he spoke slowly. “You are the only person I’ve ever loved. And now . . . to marry Kyle when he left us the way he did. It’s like I don’t even know you.”

  “Maybe we never really knew each other, Sam. A lot can happen in seven years. I was starving on a diet of hope.”

  Sam couldn’t meet Gemma’s eyes. There was something foreign there now. He continued, almost talking to himself. “I can’t look at you. When I look at you, I see him, and I feel nauseous. Everything, every move I made, was always for you. Every blow, every insult from the managers taken happily because every day brought me closer to you if I could just hold out.” Sam breathed heavily, unsuccessful in staving off his tears. “I would have walked through fire for you.” His voice cracked.

  Gemma’s protective coldness broke under the warmth of his ardor. She took him in her arms, holding the man so changed from the boy who had left. But burying her face in his neck, she noticed his scent was still the same, and she breathed him in as if she’d been underwater deprived of air. “I think you already have.” Her words came out in a sob. Her world now shifted like sand under a wave.

  After a few moments, they stood apart from each other, questions in both their eyes, no answers to be found. “I can’t say goodbye to you, Gemma.”

  Looking past Sam, she saw Kyle coming up the drive and knew she had to end this here. “You aren’t saying it. I am. Goodbye, Sam.” With that, she turned and walked into the house, leaving Sam in the void behind her.

  He picked up the books he’d dropped on the ground and walked dazedly toward the gate, brushing shoulders with Kyle as he passed him. They each turned to look at one another, recognition playing across both their faces. The years had changed Kyle. He wore a short beard now, some gray in what used to be strawberry-blond hair. He was thinner. But he was still Kyle. Turning again, they walked in opposite directions, Kyle toward Gemma, Sam away from her.

  3

  LAST DANCE OF COLOR

  M y Dear Gemma,

  When I’m writing you these letters, I like to pretend we’re out here in the woods together just like we used to be. Remember how we used to count the stars at night? You could always see farther and better than I could, so you always counted higher. I’ve tried to train my eyes to look deeper and farther into the night, tried to learn to see as you see. I’m not sure that will ever happen, though. Perhaps that’s what leads people to marry, each bringing something the other lacks, fitting together like puzzle pieces.

  The days run together sometimes. It’s hard to tell one from the other when they aren’t accented by messages and stories from home. I hope you are well, and Z too. I haven’t heard from him either. My friends here in the lumber camp tell me it’s normal for the mail to be inconsistent. So I’m hopeful that one day I’ll get a stack of letters. It will feel like the Christmases I’ve read about in books, the anticipation of gifts and the satisfaction of wishes. I’ve managed to get my hands on some paper. Don’t ask me how, but after all, I’m in a lumber camp. So I send it to you as my gift. Hopefully, I’ll receive it back with part of you.

  The work here is hard, but pleasant at times. It was pretty tough going at first, but I’m getting used to it. You’ll have to get used to the calluses I’m working up on my hands. The managers tell me they’ve gotten some news about me. It looks like I might have to stay here a little longer than the two years. The demand for lumber has increased, and there aren’t enough workers. So we may be looking at three years instead. It’s disappointing, I know, love. We just have to push through and be strong.

  Please try to write soon. I miss your stories, your jokes. I miss kissing you, breathing you in. At night, I try to imagine your lips on mine, imagine you lying beside me. But it’s not even close to the same as the nights we filled up with our love. My chest feels empty, since my heart resides with you. Be well, my Gemma.

  All my love,

  Sam

  * * * * *

  Gemma knelt on the hardwood floor in front of the old oak chest, her hands running lightly over the wooden surface of the once dark finish of the oak now faded with age. The white midday sunshine filtered through golden aspen leaves outside her window onto the chest, holding it in a rich and regal glow, the dust in the air giving definition to the rays of light. Her fingers found and rested in Sam’s carvings on the top of trees, birds, and foxglove flowers now filled with the dust of the last seven years. Gemma loved and hated the chest in equal measure, as it had held so many of her dreams built and broken within its dimensions. It had first been a kind of joke with the foxglove carving, a reminder of the time Sam had saved her from the poisonous flowers. Then it was a promise, a covenant between them that they would share their futures as surely as their pasts. It was her anchor in the first few years of Sam’s absence. Then a millstone around her neck when she was sure he was dead. She had closed and locked the cover along with a part of her heart the day she marked as his death date. And now here it stood, unmoved, unchanged, pronouncing judgment on her wayward heart for moving on. She found herself wishing she’d left the chest with Zacharias.

  How Gemma had longed and prayed to whatever gods there were for Sam’s return. But not like this, not now. She wondered if prayers were ever answered according to the desires of mere mortals. She hadn’t allowed herself to open the chest in several years. And though it belonged to both of them, she’d insisted on bringing it with her to her new home when she married Kyle. She told him it was part of their shared past, a part of her, but assured him her feelings for Sam were buried, and she would never again open it. She had lied.

  Now with her husband downstairs, she brought out the key to unlock and unbury the past now resurrected. She held the only letter she had ever received from Sam, the one she’d read so often she’d memorized the words. The paper was soft in her hands, its folds worn, almost separating it into three sections. Beneath that were the final letters she had written to Sam when she had stopped sending them finally but couldn’t bring herself to stop talking to him about her life, her dreams, her fears.

  . . . On these cold winter nights, I think of you, hoping you are warm, and build my fire bigger than all the rest so maybe a bit of its warmth will reach you. Although no fire can warm me enough to make me need your arms less . . .

  . . . When I was watching the sunset yesterday, it reminded me of one of the photographs you took that hangs in the dining room at Z’s house. He told me you left your camera behind. That saddens me. I wish you’d taken it with you, Sam. I’m sure you will see many things inspiring enough to photograph. But maybe when you return . . .

  . . . Sam, Kyle came back to the village today. It’s been so long since we last saw him, I never thought we would. I was surprised to find out the Corsairs had released him. Medical reasons, apparently. He will be working as a medic with the Council of Doctors. He has changed a great deal. He’s lost that fire and anger that used to fuel his every move. He’s much quieter and gentler, if you can believe it. Strangely, having him here makes me feel a little closer to you. I wish we could all three be together again like we used to be, all taking care of each other, depending on each other. Despite the hardness of those days, I somehow miss them. And as always, I miss you . . .

  . . . I’ve met a young girl named Daisy, maybe five or six. A blonde and clever little urchin. She lives out in the forest outside of town with a group of children, larger than our group was. They seem to take care of her. I wish I could bring her to stay here with me, but I don’t think they fully trust me yet. And I’m not even sure it would be the safest thing. The Corsairs have increased their guard for some reason. I worry about changes that may be coming. They are watching us more closely. So I let her stay in our old cabin. Remember? The one beneath the pines. I try to go out there every few days to bring her and her band of children
whatever supplies they need. Maybe one day it will be safe enough that she could become my daughter. Maybe our daughter. My heart counts the days . . .

  With a deep breath, Gemma pulled herself back to the present. She tried to ground herself in the physical things around her, the smell of the wood in the chest, the light from the window, her knees hurting from kneeling on the wood floor of her bedroom. She closed her eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose. These letters were her past. Thinking of time made her glance at the wind-up clock on her nightstand, noting the time. That’s why Kyle had come home. It was lunchtime. He’d be waiting for her in the kitchen. Gemma wondered if she should send the chest back to Z’s house. It would only torment her here. Why think now of what might have been when what was looked in her eyes daily, slept beside her at night, and gave her what little comfort she could expect from this life?

  “Gemma, I’m home,” Kyle called from the kitchen. This was her life now. This was what she had to build from. She closed and locked the lid to the chest and went downstairs.

  As Gemma entered the kitchen, Kyle’s broad back was facing her as he washed his hands in the cold water from the pump over the sink.

  “What are you hungry for?” she asked. “We’ve got this week’s rations in the root cellar. The hens laid plenty of eggs today. Plenty of vegetables from the garden.”

  “Let’s save the rations for dinner. Maybe a couple of eggs and a salad? I can fix it if you’re busy.”

  “I’ll fix it. I’m hungry myself.”

  Kyle turned to face his wife to find she’d turned away from him and was now setting about the task of preparing lunch. He wished he could see her face but didn’t want to appear awkward or make her stop what she was doing. So he spoke to the air between them. “He’s back, then.”