I overheard my parents talking about the war in low tones. They didn't know that I was just nearby, in the larder where it was always dark and cool. I liked to lay upon the thrawl there, stretching out across the large slab of stone. Mama kept food on it, because the stone held onto the night chill long into the hottest day. If I pushed the covered clay pots and jugs of milk and water over to one side, there was room for me to lay behind them in the dark.

There was a war underway, I knew that much already. A month or so prior, before the hot days, a mass of soldiers flooded into our farm, overnight. I thought that they had come with the rain. It had rained all day into night, swelling the river out onto the field. There was muck everywhere and not much to do outdoors. I liked rainy days like that. We stayed inside then and told stories to each other. My chore was to mind the pots placed under leaks. We kept the water in large vats. There in the corner of the larder they sat, heavy and wide enough to hide in.

I fell asleep that night to the sound of the rain. My sister snoring lightly against my neck. In the morning outside the window, as far as I could see, were water, mud and men. The rains had passed and the sky was cheery. Mama came into our room and told us to stay inside. She sat with us and we watched them together, my father among them. He had his pitchfork, leaning on it and smoking with an important man. This man wore would have been a beautiful uniform, except for being smothered in mud. My sister asked if they came from the dirt. She called them mushroom men. That seemed inane to me. They were clearly men as any other, men like our father. Some were sick from travelling in the rain all night and swaddled in coarse blankets, sucking soup. Others washed from the trough by the stables. Mama told us they had already eaten all our eggs, bread and butter. They did look hungry.

I could see my father studying a map with the soldiers. He would occasionally point into the distance and nod.

"Where are they going?" They were men, I could see that, but I secretly thought they had fallen from the sky with the rain, and would go with it to where raindrops gather.

"North, I believe," she said candidly, watching my father. She seemed distracted and she held my sister against her chest. She spoke to me like to any other adult and this was very strange to my ear. "They are going to war. We may have to leave this place." She looked to me with soft sad eyes, "We may have to go." She rocked my sister in her arms, she had fallen back asleep.

But that was long ago, and already the seasons had shifted. Up from that muck our crops were now straining for the sun, high enough to tickle my knees as we raced through them for the riverbank. I had completely forgotten about those men. They left behind a mess of footprints and wheel ruts, horse shit and ashes all around the house. My sister and I chased each other about with fingers for guns, pretending to be soldiers. Mama caught us playing like this and made us promise never to do so again.

The last rain of the season had washed away all traces of that strange mob. I lay in the larder, in the dark, cool, quiet and I listened to my parents speaking again about this war. My skin rippled over with gooseflesh from the cold stone and I held my breath, trying to hear them. He was going to join them. Going to fight. I could not imagine this. I had never seen my father in a fight before. I knew that soliders did more than just fight, that they killed and were killed in return. My father's contemplation was a profound, confusing heresy. Mama began to cry, and then I did too in response.

After some time I came out and saw in the empty kitchen the two chairs where they had been sitting and talking together. The chairs were angled together, facing each other as a pair. Through the window I saw Mama and my little sister in the garden. I wanted to join them and ask about what I had heard, but I didn't know if my sister was aware and I didn't want to frighten her.

I left the front of the house and scanned the field, my father was not around. He was not near the barn either. I finally circled back around to the garden. Mama saw me coming and before I could get near she waved me off, "Your father's looking for you. He went down by the river."

I thought he would be fishing I raced out to the bridge from where we liked to cast. He was there, but without his pole, his hands in his pockets and watching the water.

"Come on here," he said when I skittered out from the pathway through the brush.

"Yessir." I panted from the run, coming closer to stand next to him. He watched the water for a hard, long time. And I did the same, in silence, trying to find what he was seeing. I knew he was going to talk to me seriously. And so I held my tongue and waited and watched. The river glittered like a rush of diamonds. It gurgled merrily, inviting me to swim and play. I saw dim shadows of fat lazy fish. Dragonflies along the shore, in the reeds.

"You remember those soldiers that marched through, 'bout two moons ago," I nodded. My father carried a splinter of wood in his mouth, he worked it around to the other side with his tongue.

"They're fighting men, and I'm going to join them. They could use the help." He settled his hand on my shoulder.

"This'll be hard on your Mama, most. She is a soft, sweet soul. But God willin', I should be back before the crops come in. You all can manage until then. And if there needs some mending or whatnot, you can ask in town for help. We're in good standing with the church, and all know it."

"Yessir." I could feel my face swelling and my eyes getting wet, I didn't want to cry. He turned me around to him and leaned down low to me. He brushed a knuckle across my cheek.

"She didn't give me a boy, but you been as good a child as I could want. I taught you to shoot, didn't I?"

"Yessir."

"That's right. And if you see any flag you don't know outside the window, you stay in and hold this farm. I can't trust that your Mama will do the same. She'll take in any limp dog, any sick snake."

"Yessir."

"I want you to cut your hair. There's a trunk by our bed. In it are some things that might fit you. Men's things. You gotta be the man now. That's a heavy lot to ask you to carry, I know."

I nodded, scowling back emotion, looking at his mouth and squaring my shoulders. My throat was tight and I thought about him and those muddy men with their guns and maps and smoke on the horizon.

"Any soldiers come by, in any uniform, ours or else's, you keep the rifle on you, and look to your sister. You don't let on around any of them, you understand me. It's just for a summer, but I need you to be the man while I'm gone."

I nodding, sniffling and trembling, but I didn't feel a single wet streak on my face and I held his gaze evenly.

"Yessir." Every inch of me wanted to fly into his arms, to flop and flail and sob. I didn't understand, and I was sure there could be another way - but I was my father's child and I meant to make him proud. That was how simple it was in my head, and how easily I handed over my pigtails for a cap and a gun.

Of course, he didn't come back that harvest. And the soldiers that did shamble into our yard, wounded and hungry, looked me over with haunted, searching eyes, like maybe they knew me. I was gangly and lean, I could have been a boy, I pretended it well enough: I just acted like them. I grew into it. And I was suspicious and hard, just like he wanted. I found the edge to send them away when Mama handed them cornbread tied in a rag. To fire into the air when I saw the ragged figures sneaking about the garden.

The war crept closer to us every month. Distant fires became more distinct, especially at night. Sometimes the cannons would sound like far away thunder or timbers groaning. My little sister and I would climb to the roof of the barn and sit after dark, watching the dim light flicker against low clouds.

She asked me once, "Why do you act so funny now?" I knew what she meant.

"Daddy didn't want any menfolk to look me over." She thought about this, leaning back on her elbows, our legs hanging from the edge of the roof. Crickets and frogs in the night, and every so often booming mortars and flashes of hellfire upon churning, roiling masses of smoke.

"Do you think I need to worry?"

"Don't think so, you're too young, Mama's too old. Something like that, anyway." I idly swung the heavy clod of my bootheels into the side of the barn, "Besides, it won't be for long. Just until he returns."

"Is he going to?"

"Hush! See that?" I waved her silent and pointed across the way, into the woods. A shadow shuffled out of the gloom and across the approach to the farm. Closer still and I could see one man helping another limping along, almost carrying him.

"Where? I don't see-" I hissed her silent and scrambled back through the hole into the loft. She followed, whimpering, her white shift flashing over bare feet. We were both spooked, as always, but I couldn't show it. I felt my father's hands like lead upon my shoulders.

"Go to the house, hide in the larder. Don't come out until I come in to get you. I'll wake Mama."

She clung to me, already starting to cry and I had to pry her off more roughly than I meant to. "No! Git!" I kissed her forehead, "And quiet now."

Inside, I took up the rifle beside the door. Mama was in bed, asleep and snoring. I lit the lamp and held it near her face; she looked so tired, so old.

"Mama. Mama wake up, some men are coming." She frowned in her dream, suddenly infantile and displeased. I wondered briefly what dreams she had, were they like mine? Fleshy and conflicting? She grunted and peered at me groggily. I whispered again, "Mama, I saw two men just outside."

As though summoned, a loud banging on the front door.

"Open up! Wounded out here!" Heavy footfalls on the porchboards. More fists against the door.

I left the lamp with Mama, who was already rousing upright. The men sounded like they were intent on bringing down the house, hollering and violent. My lips were dry, my heart pounding. I waited in front of the door a breath to steel myself, then opened it, rifle ready. Beyond it loomed the one man holding up the other. I couldn't see the face of the limp body in his arms, but his face was dark with blood and grime and shadow. His companion looked to my gun.

"You, boy. Let me in, this man's hurt bad."

"What side you with, friend," I ground my heel against the floor and held the barrel steady. "And God's mercy for you both if you don't come quick with the answer." In the dark, I couldn't make out their ragged uniforms clearly. He snorted in disbelief and moved as if to brush me aside. I had to cock back the hammer, almost driving the end of the black barrel into his chest.

"Side? The living, and I aim to keep it that way." His companion moaned and coughed up a dark wad of blood, clutching his belly. I flinched back from the spatter of it on my boots.

"Move child." It was Mama, she held the lamp to the wounded man's face and we all could see the tattered meat.

Inside, we sat around the pot-bellied stove while Mama put on some coffee. My little sister still hid in the larder, I didn't mention her and neither did Mama. The wounded man lay on the floor, stripped down and cleaned, his gashes tended to as best as possible. Mama and the other soldier tore his uniform into strips for bandages; they sewed him up with needles and thread like a soft doll. He was feverish and moaning, but after some whiskey and tea he managed to touch something like sleep.

The less hurt soldier had been shot, twice through muscle and once off his head. He crouched low on a stool and watched me while Mama stitched him shut as well. He didn't make any sound of complaint; he watched my gun.

"Your boy's got some mouth, ma'am." He sipped from his laced coffee, "You'd think I was pleading to Saint Peter to see Heaven, just to set down by this fire and take a needle in my shoulder."

I jut my jaw to show I meant business and we searched each other for weakness. Mama glanced at me over his bare back. She nodded me away, "Go and fetch me some more water in a bowl." I hesistated for a heartbeat or two, then did as she told me. I also took my sister the quilt off our bed. She had been crying and she threw herself into my arms when I entered.

"Hush, now. You gotta stay in here a little longer. I brought you this to keep warm."

"I'm scared, who are are those men?"

"Nevermind that, just keep quiet." I rubbed a thumb over her cheek and kissed her forehead, "I love you. You're being real good, now."

Returning with the bowl of water and my gun, I heard the last bit of him talking low with Mama, "-may have been followed." They both looked up at me in sudden silence.

I sat across the room with the weapon heavy upon my lap; I drank from my father's cup.

"Some time ago, we had soldiers pass through here. Wearing shirts and boots like yours. But none with those pants, pants that don't match. And don't think I didn't see that your friend is just as ill put-together. Now why're you two dressed so mixed up, mister?" To his face, I called him "mister" and not "soldier" - my father was a soldier. This man, I was beginning to suspect, was a coward and a deserter. Why else would he come here and not return to his post? Fleeing in the night.

My Mama finished and came around to sit between us, a little off to the side. She watched him with quiet interest, wanting to hear the answer as well. He sipped his coffee. His friend shivered in his sleep, trembling under damp cloths spread over his body.

"As I was about to explain to your mother: we were ambushed. Our orders were to scout out some of our territory that had gone quiet. The carrier pigeons didn't come that morning, but there weren't no hint of trouble, so we went to investigate." As he spoke, his gaze left the room entirely, looking past the walls, "They were expecting us, that's for sure. Killed most my boys right off; they swooped in and had us by surprise. By the time we could return fire, it was already too late. I blacked out when I got shot. But only a short time, because I came around when they were leaving. I was under a pile of bodies, lumped in with the dead. They had taken some of our uniforms. I'm not sure, but I think they meant to sneak into our camp in disguise."

"Why didn't you try to return?" I asked, accusing, "If you were quick, you could have warned-"

"Because I was left for dead! And because everyone else around me already was dead.

Well, except for this one here, and he's still on his way." He curled his fingers into fists at me.

"Don't you see, this is God giving me a second chance," He sat up straight, squaring his shoulders, "I aim to take it! I served honorably. I brought this man here to your door, so that he might live. I killed my fair share and done my duty. So I figure I'm even with the damned war. Now the good Lord has put his hand around me, and he set me down on this path away from death. I'm done with killing."

The bandage across his chest suddenly bloomed red and he winced, slouching over and clutching at it.

"Easy, you gonna tear your stitches," Mama fussed and he waved her off. Reaching for the bottle of whiskey and dumping more into his thin coffee.

"I want your boy to know something," and then to me, "Your father, if he's still alive out there - he's fighting for you and this land."

"That's right, sir."

"And that makes a good story on Judgment Day. I tell you what, though: I've seen 'em fall with smiles on their faces. Lost souls looking to let another man's bullet make the hard decision to go on living or to stop. Or them that join into the fight to run from getting some young girl back home pregnant. Or them that join so as to kill another man without it being murder. And some that just want to wear the uniform like a skin and a spine, because they don't know who they are." He spit to the side, "All selfish reasons for killing. Small reasons. And even worse reasons for dying."

"My father is not like that."

"Boy, your father chose to leave you - and your mother - to put a bullet in a stranger or to take one for himself. Right now he's more of a dead soldier than your father, or devoted husband, or pissant farmer."

I rose to my feet and he did the same, but then Mama came between us and turned him aside, taking his cup.

"You've had enough coffee, good friend. I think you should rest. There's healing to be done in sleep and dreams." He looked at her curiously, startled by her words. She held his elbow and maneuvered him over to a clear spot on the floor. As she helped him down, I was surprised at how easily she guided him about. She rolled a quilt under his head for a pillow and he winced meekly, clearly aching into position.

"I'm mighty sorry, ma'am. I appreciate what-"

She shushed him and he nodded, putting his hand over his reddened bandage.

"We'll be on our way in the morning," he whispered, then fell silent.

Mama motioned for me to follow her into the larder.

The three of us, mother and two daughters, sat in a circle and thought things through, holding hands in the dark.

"Did you hear all that?" Mama asked. My little sister nodded. "So what do you think, then?" It was a reasonable question. Mama talked to us more like equals since my father went to war. She squeezed my hand, "The man sounds scary, but he says God protected him. Is that true, Mama?"

I shook my head, "Can't be, he's a coward. And he don't talk much like a saved soul. Not like the Reverend does in church." My sister and I nodded at that. It was difficult to reconcile someone so hard against our father's good fight being singled out and blessed. "I think he was just lucky. That or he's lying. We still don't know if he's a spy or not."

Mama sighed, "I'm not sure it matters." She gripped us tightly, "However, I do think he's trouble. Can you stand to keep out of sight a little longer, honey? In the barn?" My little sister nodded.

And so she did, above the horse and the cow and the pitchfork. For comfort, I left a lantern lit in the window that she could see. Mama went back to bed. I watched over our guests for a little longer. They might be exhausted and wounded now, docile enough to let a woman and her boy order them around. But by tomorrow, after rest and some recovery, these soldiers could be ornery, burly things. I sat in the rocking chair and fought back sleep a little longer.

I awoke to the wide open front door, the false dawn light around the soldier standing on the porch. His companion was sitting up, but slumped over his knees and rubbing his head. It was still a few more hours before a proper sunrise, and after last night, I wasn't surprised that Mama was still in bed.

The man on the porch stepped down into the dirt and headed towards the barn. I felt the hairs on my neck lifting until I saw him veer to the trough of water beside it. He bent over and dunked his head fully, tossing back with a grunt I could hear across the yard. I watched him through the windows as long as I could without getting up, but soon lost sight of him when he began to circle around the house. The other fellow moaned, the coughed up something foul. He slouched to the side and spit it out, then fell back to the floor, breathing in rattling and ragged gasps.

From the kitchen, I poured him a cup of water and left in on the floor near his head, then went outside. I didn't see him around the garden patch. Nor the woodpile. The axe there still in the stump. I held the gun in the crook of my arm.

It was chilly outside, the grass wet and slick under my boots. Far away, dark trees tossed together in the breeze. And now, even now, in this quiet hour, I could see the war fires still burning. Flickering lights and a general darkening of the sky. It all seems closer and closer each day.

He appeared out the woods, buttoning up his pants. Seeing me, he lumbered over.

"You always carry that thing?"

"What side did you fight on, mister."

He sniffed, his hands on his hips. "I quit that war, yesterday. And I don't fight for nobody now." He brushed past me.

"I say you're a traitor and a coward." He turned to face me, but still backing towards the house, his hands up and pale.

"You have the gun; you say what you please."

I look past him to the lantern in the window. Mama was there over it, lit up like an angel. I followed him back to the house, watching the roll of his shoulders, the muscles along his spine. There was something to it I can't place. There was no real light to speak of, just the skin glow of blues and greys on dark. I looked for signs of my father in his stride and his frame.

Back inside and Mama changed his bandages.

"I was thinking of heading for the river and following it back up into the mountains."

Mama nodded, then, "And your friend, he seems to be getting better. Won't you be travelling together?"

He shook his head, "I doubt it. I don't know him really. I don't want to be around when gets his feet under him. He may want to go back to killing." He looks to me knowingly, "He may want to stay. Either way, I'm leaving this day. If he gives you any trouble, I think your boy here can handle it."

"Where will you go?"

"I can't go home. I'm supposed to be dead. I'll be hanged for desertion."

Mama gave him a shirt to wear and some biscuits. I walked with him down as far as the river side.

At the bridge he kissed me. As simple as smiling, suddenly, wordlessly and only once. He dropped down from the bridge into the shallows of the river and splashed along the shore without looking back.