Your Country Needs You

I’m lucky to be alive. And terrified of myself – for doing something I never thought possible.

A man, or what was once a man, stands before me in the pouring rain. He’s seized solid, motionless, gray – the switchblade still in his grasp. It all happened so suddenly – I’d no time to react.

Now, he’s made of stone, not flesh and bone. I extend one leg, push my foot off the still-warm figure, topple it backward where it shatters into several large chunks on the pavement.

Frozen images of him, and of my own head silhouetted by lightning, float in my mind. His leering face – malicious, scarred, brazen. My hair, soaking wet, yet somehow twisted into ropes. Ropes that moved, writhed in that split second of illumination. I’m relieved when I reach up and feel only long, relaxed hair, soaking wet.

While Big Ben tolls the midnight hour, I stuff trash into a bin against the building wall. Above me hangs one of many signs posted throughout the city, urging discretion, vigilance against the Nazi invasion. “Careless Talk Costs Lives” it proclaims in huge red letters. I check the back alley around me. No one.

So I hurry back to my flat, drink gin until reality fades away.

—

My sleep is haunted – I hide in a cave while some ancient, bloody battle rages outside. Men shout, bellow, howl. And die. Screams, and the metallic tang of blood in the air as blades clash and ring in battle. Until several invaders stray inside and threaten the dark-haired infant I cradle against myself – my only daughter. My future lineage.

These men, shielded beneath their blood-stained armor, their heavy, crested helms, know nothing of my power. When I step out before them, my fear and rage are spitting, striking from my head. My stare is black, bottomless, my eyes like liquid onyx. They freeze in an instant, with no time to cower, flee, or scream.

—

I jump awake, head pounding, my body, my bed soaked cold with sweat. I’ve never had such a dream – one so visceral, so real. What ancient memories are locked inside me, I wonder. What dark terrors from the past are engrained in my body, my soul?

An hour later, I sit by the window in my flat and sip tea. I recall the legends, the lessons my mother taught me. As her own mother taught her.

Until last night, I’d thought it all a myth. Of three primordial sisters who intermingled their destinies with mortal men, passed down their terrible power through the maternal bloodlines. How many of us still survive, I wonder. Am I the last, or one of thousands?

I hunger for the innocence, the ignorance I’ve lost. And long for my ho-hum life as a secretary. One of many women – we who type, file, take shorthand, answer phones. When I stare into the mirror, I see only a shy, olive-skinned Elizabeth, not some cursed Cilician witch.

This secret is mine alone to bear. Though he meant me harm, I’m crushed with guilt. Was there some way I could have defended myself, without killing him? I reacted out of instinct when he cornered me – there was no forethought, no volition. It just… happened…

On my second cup, sunshine finally breaks through the clouds and warms my face. I take it as a sign, and ask God to help me bury this, here and now, and go on living as before. Perhaps I will confess my sin, decades from now, in some old, faraway church where I’m a stranger.

Still, I hear my mother’s stern advice from the past. Never call attention to yourself. Avoid violent confrontations with others. Don’t tell anyone what are capable of. No one. Because they will find a way to use you if you do. But most of all – if you must use your power – run. And never look back.

—

An hour later, I’m rushing about, packing clothes when there’s a knock at the door. I stuff my bags beneath the bed and greet Mary, my only friend in the building. She keeps glancing down the hallway in either direction as I invite her inside.

“Lizzy, we need to talk,” she says in an urgent whisper.

She closes the door behind herself as quietly as possible.

“Something weird’s going on. I just took my trash out back, and there was a group of men in suits, all crowded around some pile of rubble on the ground. They were asking tenants if they witnessed anything strange.”

A pit forms in my stomach.

“What, the police are there? Is anyone hurt?”

“Well, a couple constables were there, but no – there was those war intelligence men I see around town. You know, the guys who just watch folks, ask odd questions about this or that. These days, I see ‘em everywhere. One of ‘em took lots of photos at the scene.”

“Gosh, I hope there’s not a criminal on the loose,” I say.

“Missy got a better look at what they were checking out. Said it looked like a stone statue of a man, all busted up in the alley, with its head layin’ separate from its body. But who’d be leavin’ a big statue like that, back of our building of all places?”

Then she moves closer, lays her hand on my forearm.

“But that’s not why I’m here. A couple of them agents was askin’ about any women folks might’ve seen. Women who look Greek or have a Mediterranean background. And I thought immediately of you, Lizzy, and knew I had to warn you, in case someone directs them here to your flat.”

“Did someone see such a woman near that statue?”

“Could be. I know you wouldn’t do anything wrong, but I hope those men don’t show at your door. I heard them questioning folks, and they give me the willies. Those agents have such a dark, mysterious manner about ‘em. I know they’re trying to keep us safe from the Germans and all, but I just don’t like them.”

Mary leaves, and I return to my packing. Someone must have seen what happened last night. They’re looking for me, and I’ll soon be in prison, or at the end of a rope. Then it hits me – how can they convict me of turning a man to stone? It’s ridiculous. Which means they know something about the power I possess. And all of it in the midst of a war in which Britain’s very survival is at stake.

They’ll find a way to use you. For their own selfish ends.

—

By nine o’clock at night, it’s raining and windy outside. I stand at the door of my flat with two bulging suitcases, then realize I’ll stick out like a sore thumb to the security agents around town if they’re looking for me. So I repack my barest essentials into a shoulder bag, put on my hooded Mackintosh, and open the door.

The hallway is empty, so I hurry down the stairs and step into the foul weather. The sidewalks are crowded, the streets packed with honking cars and buses as Londoners make the best of a Saturday night. With my hood drawn, I have the best cover possible. For once, luck is on my side.

Where am I going? How will I survive alone out in the world? And what of these men I see on my way to the train station – their hat brims pulled low? Men who glance my way now and again with their intelligent, curious eyes.

By the time I’m heading north toward the farmlands of Scotland, I glance about at my fellow passengers. The tall, inquisitive men in gray – I count several in my train car, all of them reading the newspaper. Then, as we pull into the Sheffield station while I struggle to stay awake, a kind looking woman sits down beside me. She looks to be in her sixties, with gray hair and vividly blue eyes.

After stowing her umbrella beneath the seat, she extracts a tin of lozenges from her purse. Opening it, she holds it toward me.

“Care for one? They’re delicious.”

I take one and thank her. It tastes delicious – like wild cherries. Then she leans close to me and whispers in her kindest, gentlest voice, “Have you ever thought of serving our nation, in some extraordinary way? We desperately need your help.”

As she pats my forearm with her wrinkled hand, reality begins to swim and spin around me. I spit out what remains of the lozenge, but it’s too late. The last I see are two men in gray, standing beside me in the aisle. Then darkness…