Follow the Bluebells

I blink. And again. My eyelids flutter open. Shut. The light is blinding as I open them fully this time. Colours merge as I get my bearings. Red. Black. Grey. I clamber out from my hiding spot. No one found me here. My parents said they’d catch me up, to go here and wait for them. But the noise has stopped. They never came.

My vision comes into focus. There is still a fire burning in the distance, on the Western outskirts of what was once our village. I turn slowly, taking in what is left of my surroundings. Bodies are strewn across the wasteland like litter at a campsite. Blood seeps into the scorched earth, the first liquid it has seen in months. Where buildings once stood, piles of rubble and ash now rest. I breathe in, but smoke fills my lungs, making me sputter and cough. I pull my thin scarf up to cover my nose and mouth. I’m uncertain of how much protection it will give me, but it’s worth a try.

I don’t know how long I’ve been down there, and I can’t tell what the time is as clouds and smoke dominate the sky, covering the sun. But it’s not night any more.

Unsure of the best course of action, yet knowing that staying in the bunker is pointless, I start heading towards the rubble that was once my home. The soldiers won’t be back now that they’ve torched the village, so I decide it’s fairly safe for me to explore. I walk past corpse after corpse and grimace every time I recognise a face. As I live in a small village, it’s most of them.

I freeze. There was a noise, almost inaudible, but noticeable in the deathly silence that has overtaken the land. I look down and see that the body at my feet is still breathing. “Help,” she had muttered. I crouch down beside her, taking her hand in mine. I can’t remember her name, but I recognise her face from the factory I used to work at before last night happened. There is nothing I can do to save her. My heart sinks at the realisation. I continue to sit by her until her eyes close for the last time. It doesn’t take long.

Part of me wonders if I should join her – what is the point of living alone in a wasteland? But something inside tells me that I’m not alone, and that means I have to continue. Continue living. Continue breathing. Continue walking.

When I arrive at home, my heart sinks even further. I don’t know why I expected my parents to be standing there waiting for me, unharmed and with outstretched arms. I knew deep down they wouldn’t, but the disappointment still hits me with the same force as being punched in the gut by my older brother. He only did that to me once; we usually got along. The memory makes me stagger, knowing that he is not a face I’m going to be seeing again. The soldiers already got to him. I take hold of a piece of rubble in an attempt to regain my balance. But it falls, and I fall with it.

The rock crashes to the ground with a terrible thud, splitting into several pieces that fly in all directions. I am sprawled on the floor. There’s blood on my arm, but I don’t know if it is mine. My leg is throbbing. I push myself up and realise the blood is mine, coming from a cut on my right forearm. The wound doesn’t appear to be deep. I stand, and immediately wince as I put weight on my left leg. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s broken, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

I push through the pain, and start to look through the rubble. There are fragments that remain of my former life. A burnt book that crumbles at my touch. A singed chair leg. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find. I see what must be the doll I used to love, now black and almost unrecognisable. I move the legless table top it is resting on. Then I see it: what I didn’t know I was looking for. A glint. A small glimmer, reflecting the dim sunlight that is beginning to break through the smoke. It’s quite deep in the pile, but I need to get it. There was not much in our old home that shines like that, so this is something important. But for the life of me, I don’t know what.

I shove the table top further out the way and find my balance on a precarious stack of rubble. I wipe my bloodied hand down my flimsy trouser leg, then climb up onto what I believe we once called our sofa. Then I slide down into the hole I’ve made. I’m closer now. I reach out, but whatever I’m standing on isn’t sturdy. I crouch and lurch forward, stretching my arm out towards the small silver glimmer. I manage to grab it, even though it means I fall, scraping my knees on broken bricks. I cradle the tiny item in my hand, unable to move. I wasn’t expecting it to be this.

I’m holding my mother’s locket. A metal heart on a battered black cord that I’d only ever seen around her neck. Breath escapes from my lungs and I no longer notice the pain in my leg or the blood escaping from my arm.

Trembling, I force myself to open it, expecting to see the wedding photo that has lived in there forever. It’s the only time they’d had their photo taken. But that’s not what I find.

There is a scrap of paper, folded several times. My shaking fingers take an age to open it, the adrenaline pumping through my veins in anticipation. I need to know what it says.

"Follow the bluebells."

My heart races. It’s late summer and the bluebells are long dead. But there is only one place that the bluebells grow. I know what this means.

“Thank you Mother,” I whisper.

I push myself up and scramble onto the top of the pile of rubble. I don’t know how she knew I would find this. Or why they went there and not to our bunker. But this piece of paper solidifies my hope that I’m not the only one left.

Having jumped down from the pile, I hold back a scream at the pain in my leg. I’m not going to make it there like this. I find a table leg to use as a crutch and start heading East. When I’m on the outskirts of the village, within a stone’s throw of the forest, I see my father lying on the ground. I can’t bear to look. A tear rolls down my cheek. I decide I have to look.

Crouching down, I notice his hand is clutched around something. He died holding it. Knowing my father, it must be important. I peel back his stiff fingers with my shaking hands and find the keyring I’d made him many years ago. Before I’d had to grow up. When I still had time for fun.

I take the keyring as well as the handkerchief from his pocket, which I tie around my arm. It doesn’t do much for the blood, but mother can deal with it when I see her. When. Not if. Then, with a kiss on his forehead, I force myself to stand back up. As much as I want to stay and weep and mourn, I have to get to the hut in the forest. Mother is waiting for me. There will be time for mourning later.

I force myself to walk the path that bluebells line in spring, despite the fact that every step is agony. It takes me far longer than it has ever taken me before, and the sun is starting to set behind the smoke when I first set eyes on my destination.

I smile when I see that the shelter is still intact. There is smoke coming from the chimney. You would think I’d seen enough fire for one day, but I can’t help hurrying my footsteps once I know she is inside. My stomach gurgles at the possibility of food cooking. I don’t know when I last ate. The door opens and I’m ready to run into her arms.

But it’s not her. I stop, leaning my weight on the impromptu walking stick. If I didn’t, I think I would have fallen again. I open my mouth, then close it again without speaking. It’s not very often that I am lost for words, but this is one of those occasions.

“Evangelina,” he calls to me. His voice is deep but soft. The sound ricochets inside my skull, appearing to be far louder than I believe it was.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. I may have seen a lot of death today, but I am certain that my older brother died when I was twelve.

“There’s much you don’t know,” he says. “Come inside. I’ll explain everything.”

I nod meekly. He shows me into the shelter, and my stomach growls even louder than it did before at the smell of mint tea heating on the fireplace and the sight of bread on the table. He must have noticed my eyes widen, because he tells me to help myself. I don’t need asking twice.

“Is she alive?” I ask whilst breaking a chunk off the stale loaf. There was no point in skirting around the question.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Mother is safe and well. Father was not so fortunate.”

I breathe out a sigh of both relief and mourning. “Where is she then?”

“On her way to the place I have been all these years,” he tells me.

“Where?” I persist.

“Underground,” he says whilst pouring mint tea into two tin cups. “There is an underground bunker larger than our whole village. It is the only place safe from the soldiers.” I can tell there is something he isn’t telling me, but he sees the question forming in the lines of my face before I needed to ask it. “The catch, Eva, is that you must make it out of the far side of the forest to get there.”

Everyone knows that the far side of the forest is many, many miles away. No one in our village knows exactly how far because we have no maps nor means of measuring distance of that length. It is a journey full of dangers, including passing several camps of soldiers and bear hotspots, and would take at least several days. There have been a couple of people known to try and reach it over the years. They never returned; instead, we saw vultures circling the treetops. But I don’t say any of that.

“Will you come and join us?” He asks as he puts the tea down on the table.

“Will you be with me?” I reply, scooping up my tin cup with both hands.

“Every step of the way.”

“Then, yes. Of course I’m coming.”