Specters in the Snow

Snow flakes floated freely to the crisp ground. Their mysterious innocence captured the sweet light of the rising sun before sending it shimmering down to the sorrowful stones. Black roses bleeding crimson petal tips decorated the head of the freshly tendered earth. The deep, vibrant colour of the fresh carnations contrasted sharply with the spotless white of the blanket of snow which covered the ground.

Only one set of footprints spoiled the unbroken beauty. The footprints led on, winding in-between the graying headstones, stretching into the distance, gradually diminishing until they melted into nothing by the little picket fence. Silhouetted at their end stood a lone figure. Her face was shrouded with dark cloth. The only movement she made was a gentle rise and fall of her shoulders. Air billowed out through the black lace of her veil, creating a cloud which was soon dispersed by the light breeze. A shiver rippled through her as an unsuspected gust of wind revealed her face.

Rosy cheeks blushed against a backdrop of perfect pale skin. Her blue eyes, portraying the ocean; the depths unknown, the vastness unimaginable, the turmoil within untamable and unrelenting. Glistening with tears, her reddened eyes were downcast, gazing with longing at the grave beside her. Fine strands of graying hair escaped from the confines of the lace head scarf now partially trailing unchecked over her shoulder.

Through blinking eyelids her soft gaze trailed upwards to read the writing on the white marble headstones.
“Michael Macguire.
1917-1940
Beloved son, brother and husband.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek, leaving behind a path of glimmering bitterness.

With one last lingering gaze she turned. She sighed once for the lost innocence of the life taken.

The breeze bristled past her taking her mind with it back into her memories.

She remembered the happiness and love that had clouded her mind and vision. The sparkle in his eye brought a smile to her lips as there eyes met. His fingers danced along the keys of the piano as he played in the dance hall. The rich music reached up to the rafters as the dancing partners twirled around the dance floor. Her blond hair swirled around her shoulders as she danced with her partner, but he eyes kept returning to his face. There eyes kept meeting across the floor as he played and she danced. In the trance of his music and her movement they fell for each other.

“What’s your name, pretty lass?” he asked, with a lilting Irish accent accentuating the deep lullaby of his voice. He has taken a break from playing piano in the band just to speak to her.
“I’m Willow, what’s your name?” she replied with a smile.
“Michael, but the lads call me Mikey. Now then, will tha honour us with a dance?” He asked, his accent sounded strange with the Yorkshire language coming through in his speech.
“Aye, of course I will!” She replied, taking his out stretched and not looking back.

His fingers laced with hers as they paraded proudly out of the small village church. Candles glowed brilliantly in the stained glass windows, blurring the deep reds with the emerald greens. Friends and family congregated around the entrance to the church. A shadow of depression crossed her pale face but it was soon banished when his eyes met hers. Olive green eyes looked back at her, holding her glance. Love was exchanged between them.

His shortly cropped black hair contrasted against his skin. He bowed his head to look at her; his gaze was soft, filled with caring. His army uniform was freshly pressed and replaced the traditional wedding suit.

Overhead the glowing sun, an orange the shade of embers, had risen high into the sky, dotted only with a few fuzzy clouds. Below, the bluebells danced with the daffodils in the hedgerows as the confetti fell. Oranges melted into yellows whilst pinks mingled with whites, the confetti formed a blanket covering the party. Laughter filled the air yet was barely audible above the peeling of the church bells.

Willow’s dress trailed along the late spring grass. The innocent white of the lace covered the plain dress underneath. Her dark blonde hair gracefully rested upon her shoulders. Her deep blue eyes couldn’t help but admire her new husband with love.

Cruelly the biting wind brought Willow out of her reverie. She pulled her thick cloak around her tightly. A shiver ran though her whilst her breath escaped in great billowing clouds. Salty tears began to run silently down her rosy cheeks. Her eyelids flickered shut, holding the image of her smiling husband in her mind’s eye. She was taken back to the last time that she had seen that grinning face.

“I’ll be back soon, just like always. I have to work the mission, protect mi country.” A proud smile played on his lips, his eyes were soft but they told that he would not be talked out of the job that he faced.
“It’s not your country to protect!” Willow replied stubbornly. Her face was flushed and her blue eyes were a blaze.
“It is now. Even though it might not be mine am protecting, there’s somat in it that I want to protect.” This earned him a sigh from Willow. They both knew what the outcome of this quarrel would be; they had held the same one many times before. Each time it ended in the same way, Michael would go to the RAF base and protect England from the German Luftwaffe.

He pulled her tightly into his arms, holding her head near his heart. Her arms wrapped around his waist. He bowed his head and quickly graced her forehead with a gentle kiss before pulling away.
“I really have to go now, I can’t be late. Just remember, as soon as the siren goes off, go ter shelter, you’ll be safe thee-re.”
“I know. Please be careful out there.” She implored to him.
“I will be. I love you, don’t you ever forget that.”
“I love you too.” She replied, fighting back a salty tear that threatened to escape. He smiled once more before walking out of the door.

Less than an hour later the blaring screech of the air-raid sirens blasted. Their deathly raucous wail warned people, protected their lives. Instinctively Willow turned out all the lights in the house, the black out curtains had been closed earlier in preparation. Shrouded in darkness the little candle she held did little to aid her find her way to the shelter, buried safely at the bottom of the garden.

Mrs. Geiges was already inside the shelter. The little steel door that was barely visible in the bad light and due to the sheer amount of vegetables growing around it, was ajar. The faint glow of candle-light seeped out from within.

“Evenin, Mrs. Geiges.” Willow called as she carefully stepped down into the shelter. Although made for six only two people regularly occupied the shelter so it was spacious enough for some rough comfort.
“Hello, young Willow.” Mrs. Geiges was sat on one of the little bunk beds that had been built inside. Her pink dressing gown was wrapped tightly around her. Her hair was rolled up in curlers and a hair net kept them all in place. On her feet were soft slippers. Although times were hard it was still early enough into the progression of the war for clothing to still be good and enough food for the occasional celebration.

When no real conversation started up, Willow closed the door behind her and got as comfortable as possible on her own bunk. The blanket was woolen and warm, offering protection from the chill night air, even though it was summer. Outside the sirens had stopped wailing and all was quiet. It was as though the village had taken a deep breath, waiting for the assault that would surely come.

In the distance a low rumbling roar could be heard. Quickly it got closer. Many individual engines joining together to make one tumultuous thundering growl that filled the sky. Willow’s heart pounded in her chest. Her breath was dragged in quickly in short gasps. This was not the first air-raid that Willow had experienced but she never got used to them. She pulled the blanket up over her head in a vain attempt to drown out the noise.

A deeper, fiercer growl soon joined the thundering mass above them; the welcome sound of the RAF giving fight. Her heart swelled with pride as the realization that her husband was somewhere above her, fighting to protect her and their country.

Horror soon followed as whistling joined the commotion. Bombs had been dropped; their destructive hunger feeding on the land around them. Booming thuds echoed around the shelter. The area outside was littered with the explosions. Just outside the evil cackling of a fire just starting was heard.

Suddenly the banging of the bombs ceased. The growling engines ebbed away into the distance, soon after the signal for the momentary ceasefire was given. It was safe to travel back outside to survey what damage had been done this time.

The long stretches of houses winding down along the high street in the village were safe and intact, not one of them was ablaze. Families, children clutching onto their mother’s hands, little babies grasped tightly in their father’s arms were walking cautiously back into their homes. The crackling fire could still be heard. Searching around Willow found that the source of the blaze was an old shed at the bottom of one of her neighbour’s garden. The roof had completely collapsed and the door was lying a few feet away from the fire. The sides were beginning to crumble away in the heat. It had clearly been a victim of one of the bombs. Everywhere else seemed to be safe. The horizon however glowed with orange; the local town and city had taken the brunt of the damage.

Sparing a thought for the unfortunate that could possibly have lost everything Willow walked back inside her home. The blackout curtains were still closed, no light from the bright burning fire made it into her home. Resigning herself to another night of waiting for Michael to come back home she grabbed a pillow and settled down onto the sofa. She drew her knees up around her chest before pulling the sofa cover around her. Soon she was fighting against her eyes. They were heavy, drooping closed. The smiling grandfather clock blurred in her vision; its rhythmic ticking sending her into a doze.

Her eyes flickered open quickly. The room remained dark even though she could sense that a new day had dawned outside. When she opened the black out curtains bright cheery sunshine met her. Its warmth enveloped her and the birds basked in its glory. There was a knock on her door, breaking the serenity.

“Just a minute!” she called out. Frantically she ran her fingers through her hair. Suddenly she realized that Michael had yet to return. His shift had ended several hours ago, and with only one air raid last night there had been no need for him to stay beyond his stated duty.

Upon opening the door she found a stony faced middle aged man. His hair was cropped military style. Although his face was set without emotion his eyes told his weariness, dark circles shadowed them.

“Are you Mrs. Willow Macguire?” asked the man in monotone.
She replied with a, “yes,” still keeping the door chained. There was an air around this man that brought foreboding.
“I’m afraid that I have some bad news for you. There was a battle today between number 12 group and the Luftwaffe, several men were killed and several injured,” he explained, his voice never changing. Willow’s face whitened in shock and her heart thudded against her chest, but she refused to admit that he wasn’t coming back.
“Does, does Mikey need me?” she asked her voice barely above a whisper.
“Ma’am, Michael doesn’t need you, he doesn’t need anyone now,” he continued. Willow’s face showed confusion; tears began blooming in her eyes as her body began reacting to the news as her heart still held hope.
“Of course he needs me, if he’s hurt he’ll want me by his side,” she added indignantly.
“Ma’am, Michael Macguire died in the line of duty last night. You should be proud, he died protecting his country.” Finally a hint of emotion was shown; a small sympathetic smile crossed his lips for an instant.
“What? But how did it happen to him? When did it happen?” she asked frantically. She hadn’t really processed the information; she was still banishing her hope, realizing she would never see him again. Still her mind raced with questions, demanding to know answers.
“I’m sorry; I am not permitted to tell you much. There was an aerial battle last night between your husband’s group and the Luftwaffe, he was one of the pilots flying. A German Messerschmitt 109 gunned him down over our territory. His body has been found and buried in the grave yard. I am sorry. Remember, Mr. Macguire was a good man.” With that he bowed his head and turned sharply around; walking away from her yet leaving the news he had brought.

It hit her like a storm; her heart thundered in her chest, her eyes streamed a torrent of tears, her body collapsed to the floor. Her hands grasped painfully at her hair. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. Her face contorted as burning tears splashed down her reddened cheeks. Her world that she had built with Michael had shattered around her worse than the damage that any enemy bomber could ever inflict.

A fresh tear rolled silently down her cheek. Her shaky breath rattled out of her chest. She looked around her and saw the great expanse of the innocent white snow. Her mind still tortured her with memories of that day. Nothing had been the same since and she knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The shadow of the past would always linger like a spectre.