He sees a patch of grass amidst an ocean of mud and human flotsam, grass with that mirror like residue as if touched gently by the rain. Nameless soldiers are strewn in corrupt intervals over the land, but his grass is an oasis. There's fluttering in his chest that makes him feel like he's losing breath so he deliberately sucks air. It tastes like burnt wood and sulphur. Smoke envelops him.
His name is Corporal Heath Clayton. His face is one easily lost; there's scant peculiarity save one thing: discomfort he wears like acid. He twitches, and he shifts; his eyes blink too frequently as if attempting to curtail their vigilance, scanning, always scanning.
He runs his fingers through the wet grass. He removes his boots, his toes and heels caked with black blood on blistered skin. He lets his feet rest, fall as they may. He sits there awhile. Others go running by, figures blurred, becoming the same as the faceless wind.
*****
There's a man on the train sitting opposite. Clayton doesn't notice him.
"You dropped this," the man says.
"Dropped what?" Clayton says, seeing the man now, bringing himself to.
"Your notebook, it fell off your lap." The man is thin and hawk-faced with a sharp, angular nose. He's tall even as he sits. His fingers are like tentacles; they extend disproportionately from his too-small palms.
"Thanks," Clayton says, after a pause. He reaches out to take the notebook. The man holds it in suspension for a moment, long enough for Clayton to feel as though he's violated some unspoken etiquette.
"I fell asleep." Clayton says. He feels the vain in his neck start to twitch.
"Do you sleep with your eyes open?"
"Sometimes."
The man nods as if in understanding. He stares. His eyes are mere slits in leathered skin. Outside the window fields course by. Clayton prefers motion, going somewhere. Speed feels safe. Somehow, speed feels clean and new.
"I read some. I hope you don't mind," the man says. Clayton doesn't respond. "I'm Whelan."
Clayton regards him with one eye before looking away quickly. "Clayton," he says.
"You're a Corporal?"
Clayton nods.
"Were you—"
"Yes."
"My son—"
"Look, I ain't much of a talker," Clayton says abruptly.
"But you're a writer and what-not?"
"They're just ideas. You know. I write sometimes to—"
"Go on son, you write sometimes..."
"Look, I ain't much into..." he pauses, starts again: "your son...what's his name?"
"Colin. He was a Private."
"Colin Whelan? Private Colin Whelan? No, I don't know him."
"He was about your age too."
"Did he..."
Whelan shuts his eyes and lowers his head.
"I'm sorry." There's a quick silence, then Clayton asks, "was he in France?"
"He was. He was killed by a German boy, they say. Stabbed. But I can't picture that. What I don't understand is those two boys getting so close, so close they can reach out and shake hands, or they can reach out and stab each other. When I close my eyes, try as I might, I can't see it, I can't picture it. It's like my old brain won't let me. I wanted to see him again. I wanted to hug him. Tell him I was proud of him. I thought maybe I'd find him in McAdam, at the Station."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Clayton said. "When I close my eyes I think of grass. Clean wet grass. I've sort trained myself to see it everywhere. Something beautiful, ya know, at the centre of something awful. A friend taught me that, when we were out there. He said it kept him together. It's like a trick, ya know."
"Does it work?"
"Yes I believe it does," Clayton said. He scratched his jaw, then he scratched the back of his neck and his forehead. There's a cascade of irritation over his body, too much to scratch all of it, so he shifts his body entire.
"The one I read was about going home and what-not," Whelan says.
"Pardon?"
"In the notebook. I read your poem, the one about going home, and your sister, and your family's house."
Clayton drummed his knuckles on the window and offered half a smile, "It ain't no poem. Just thoughts, ya know."
"Did you keep in touch with her and what-not?"
"Wrote to her every chance I got."
"Did she write you back?"
"Sometimes."
"That's good. That's all a fella can ask."
"I suppose. Hell, I don't know if she'll smack me or hug me, ya know. She's like that." He drummed his knuckles again and smiled, eyes squinting, genuine.
"How do you plan on doing that, son?"
"She'll be there, back home. She still lives with Mama."
"Back home? What do you mean by that, son?"
"I mean back home in Ontario."
"Something gotten into you, son?"
"Look, I ain't your son, old-timer."
"Relax son. I'm only trying to help. Trying to talk to you and what-not."
"Yeah. Look, Im sorry. I ain't much good at talking, ya know. I'm a bit tired and all, ya know."
"It's a lot to take in. It was for me too," Whelan says.
"How do you mean, old-timer?"
"It's overwhelming for all of us."
"Old-timer, I don't understand half of what you're saying. You talk in riddles, ya know that?"
"They all pass through McAdam Station on their way. They can stay and wait or they can move on. But they don't get to choose the train and what-not. That's all I know."
"What trains are you talking about?"
"One goes north. One goes south." Whelan grins.
"I'm going to Ontario to see my sister. That's west from New Brunswick, right?"
"Son?"
"I thought I told you, I ain't your son. Ya leave me be now, ya hear."
"Hold up now, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you."
"How much longer is it anyway?" Clayton says, ripping open his collar as if irritated. An attendant passes by and he flags her. "Miss? when are we due to arrive?"
"McAdam ain't but two minutes, sir."
"I gotta get off, ya hear? As soon as the train stops..."
"What seems to be the problem, sir?"
"I ain't got a problem. I just need some fresh air, understand? I need to get on my feet again, that's all."
"Well I'm sorry sir, we disembark single file. Don't worry though, there ain't no rush. Your train ain't gonna leave without ya. And your welcome to stay at the Station as long as ya please."
"You ain't reading me right. I don't want to stay at the station, ya hear? I just want to get home."
"There it is," Whelan says.
"Enjoy your stay in McAdam," the Attendant says, her smile instantly transforming into something grotesque, not a frown or grimace, still a smile, but too-contrived, sinister. The train begins to halt adjacent to the Station. Clayton covers his ears at the sound of the howl and the grinding, rattling metal.
When he opens his eyes and ears, Whelan is talking, spitting his words, as if overtaken by a sudden sorrow. "I can see him. He's here. Dear God. He's here."
"What are you talking about, old-timer?"
"Colin," Whelan says, "he's here..." Whelan points out the window, tapping on the glass.
Outside a crowd of somnolent figures stand transfixed as if brought there by some force not their own. Their faces strangely vacuous; countenance, gait, position, uniform and ossified. There's a hand raised in the air, fingers thin and white, belonging to a soldier.
"It's him," Whelan says, palms pressed stiffly against the glass now.
"What is this?" Clayton says. "What the hell is going on here, old-timer? I thought you said your son was dead."
"It's time, sir," The attendant says.
Clayton head turns to regard the Attendant. "Time for what?"
"It's time to disembark, sir."
"What the hell is this place?"
"It's the Station, sir."
"What kind of Station?" Clayton says. His elevated voice has no effect on the Attendant. She stretches out her hand calmly as if to guide him, reassure him. Whelan's hand is pressed against the glass and his face is moist with tears. Clayton feels his eyes swell and his lips quiver and he starts to rock his body back and forth. "I ain't dead," he says. "I ain't dead." Tears spill out of his eyes as he looks out the window toward the Station. The figures outside seem to beckon him, they call him with their frozen, desolate faces. He shuts his eyes tight and tries to picture his sister. He wants to see her again, by the garden, or by the willows with the rocks where they used to hide, but he can't see her. He sees an island of wet grass instead, and on the grass sit a pair of boots. There's a soldier waylaid there, barefoot, facedown. Others course by becoming the same as the wind.