Page 32 of The Moonlight Healers

But her feet wouldn’t move.

The bear released another low, soft moan, almost a cry. Louise stepped out from the shelter of the apple trees, and the bear turned its head slightly at the movement.

Louise’s legs shook, but she walked forward. Dimly, she was aware of her actions, of how reckless she was being, but she also knew that a wild and beautiful creature was dying in front of her, and that letting it happen felt unbearable. Her grandmother’s wordsechoed in her mind about animals and plants, how the magic was simpler—You can bring it back, as long as it has a little bit of life left in it.

Its long claws stirred feebly at the dirt, its eyes glassy, staring out toward the apple trees. She felt the bear’s breath on her legs as she knelt beside it.

Her palms were hot before they even met the bear’s sticky, matted fur. It was surprisingly rough, almost like pine needles, but she pressed her hands firmly into the thick flesh surrounding the leg wound.

Distantly, Louise heard a human voice, a visitor to the orchard nearby most likely, but she ignored it. She closed her eyes as a jolt of electricity raced along her nerve endings. It was fainter than the explosion she had felt with Peter, but still powerful as it accelerated through her arms and into her hands and surged into the bear.

Louise opened her eyes as the bear shifted beneath her. The ragged edges of the wound were closed, leaving only soft, slightly puckered skin visible among the fur.

The bear was still for a long moment, its head resting on the ground. But then it blinked, and its eyes grew focused, alert.

Louise stumbled to her feet. It was too late to run. The bear rose up with surprising agility, several hundred pounds of muscle and sinew and raw power. It turned its head in her direction, its round black eyes wide and curious as it sniffed the air between them. Then it lumbered away with a slow groan and ambled down the row, its body swaying side to side as it occasionally stopped to sniff at the fruit above, and eventually crossed into another row and disappeared.

She stood there, half-dazed, until the sound of new footsteps broke the silence.

It was Jim, his eyes on the spot where the bear had been moments earlier, sunlight streaming through the branches above him.

DIEPPE, FRANCE

1942

10

HELENE

As Helene’s eyes adjusted to the brightness of the sun outside the truck, they found the channel. For as long as she could, she held onto the pale blue horizon of the world she knew, the waves that broke in gentle white swirls, the sea birds that dived recklessly toward the surface, the sights and sounds of her childhood, of every memory in her heart that was good and solid and beautiful.

But she couldn’t prevent the new, broken world in front of her from crashing into swift, unstoppable focus. The avenue before them was clogged with a web of machinery. Military trucks lurched past, spewing fumes and smoke, making slow progress through the crowds of soldiers, a sea of men in black and olive and brown. There were groups of German officers in clean uniforms, their heads high and faces smug as they marched prisoners past, boys with filthy cheeks and shocked expressions. There were horses tied up near carts, their coats shiny, and dogs and cats that anxiously followed the men, lured by the promise of food.

When they reached the promenade, the full view of Helene’s coast, her ruined home, hurtled toward her. There were onlythe sounds of the channel, the cries of birds, as Helene looked out onto the gray stone beach fringed by cliffs.

Even from a distance, the bodies were unmistakable, dark clusters strewed along the shore like driftwood, some half in the surf, others floating in rhythmic motions in the shallows of low tide. There had to be dozens, hundreds even, some in piles, others alone. There were too many of them, abandoned on the shore like debris from a shipwreck. But for every lifeless body there were many more wounded, dozens on stretchers, others crouched over on the hard pebbles of the beach. Still more walked in groups away from the sea front, hands over their heads.

Helene’s eyes traveled along the length of the beach, lingering on the ruined tanks, their twisted metal frames pouring smoke into the clear blue sky, the piles of guns and packs and equipment, the ruined landing craft, smoldering and useless, the only signs there had been any kind of battle. Everything else pointed only to a slaughter, a thousand men pushed off boats to be mowed down before their feet even reached dry ground.

“Come now,” Cecelia said behind Helene. “Move, Helene.”

Helene followed Cecelia down a set of stone stairs and onto the pebble beach. Up close, the channel seemed more violent, its waves pummeling wrecked ships and gear as the tide flowed in.

“There,” Cecelia said, her steady voice cutting through. She turned Helene by the shoulders. “Start on the other side of the tank. The boy there.” She pointed toward a figure lying by the wreckage of one of the Allied tanks.

There was a film over everything, a shiny haze that muffled all the color and light. She tried to take a step and stumbled.

“Go,” she commanded herself. And with great effort she moved forward past a body, and past another one, past men she told herself were sleeping, past boots blown off their owners, packs and canteens scattered over the rocks.

She forged forward until she was right beside him. When she knelt down, she saw that his face was gray, his blond hair matted with ash and dried blood. Beneath it all he was very young, maybe twenty. A little stream of blood bubbled out of his mouth.

“Are you here to help me?” he said in English, his voice hoarse. “Please help me.”

Helene could only nod as she felt his wrist for a pulse. After several moments she found it, rapid but barely detectable. His hands were cold, the skin waxy.

“I’m a nurse,” she said, dredging up the rusty English from her former life as a schoolgirl, when things like the proper way to conjugate a verb in a foreign language mattered.

“Please don’t let me die,” he said, his eyes blinking in and out of focus. His muscles bulged beneath his skin as he writhed. “Please,” he said again, barely a whisper, the whites of his eyes laced with red. “I want to go home.”

---