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Traveler – Part 02

At midnight, when the air raid alarm blared, Avril was racing down a dark alley in the outskirts of London. She quickly stopped the car and ducked her head.

Looking up, she saw the brown underside of a fighter plane passing overhead.

“Eek! D-Dear heavens…” Avril blinked back tears.

In the back seat were two recently-acquired large sacks of wheat, an overflowing basket of corn, and boxes filled with bandages and antiseptics.

Recovering from the shock, she scolded herself, “I have to go back… Gotta hang in there!”

She grabbed the steering wheel. Bombs exploded in the distance.

“P-Please don’t tell me tonight’s alarm is for our area,” she said as if talking to someone, even though there was no one around. She started the car again. “Oh no!”

She collided with a mailbox on the side of the road and came to a stop. After calming down, she took a deep breath.

Avril’s expression changed from that of a distressed girl to a levelheaded woman.

“All right, let’s go!”

She revved the engine, and the car sped away. Her driving was erratic, but she managed to stay on the road.

As soon as she arrived at the Bradleys’ house, Avril jumped out of the car.

The road sparkled like an icy Milky Way under the moonlight and the streetlights, dazzling the eyes. Doors of houses opened, and women with buckets appeared. They were gathering broken glass fragments and scattering them on the road like mad. Soon, the Milky Way made of glass shards grew brighter.

Every house had broken windows and blackened front doors from the thunderous noise and blast. There were large holes in the road here too.

“G-Grandma! Frannie!” Avril shouted as she rushed to the front door.

From the outside, she could see the shattered windows and the torn curtains on the second and third-floor. On the first floor, where the Bradley family ran their exhibit, plaster had peeled off the walls and scattered on the floor. Vases were smashed, and the blackened sofa emitted an unpleasant smell. Avril darted to the large display shelf covering one entire wall, stopping in front of the plaster bust of Sir Bradley. She pushed the white head of her grandfather.

The shelf creaked open like a double door, revealing a staircase leading underground. Originally a secret basement built by the old man, the women had turned it into a bomb shelter.

Calling out names, Avril rushed down the stairs, and in the faint light of lanterns, she saw her grandmother sitting comfortably in an armchair, embroidering as usual with her glasses on.

Glancing over at Avril, she said, “What’s the matter, Avril?”

“Good. You’re okay. Where’s Frannie? Hey, Frannie!”

Avril grabbed a lantern and illuminated different corners of the basement. Eventually, she found Frannie in a dark corner, holding a newborn baby in her arms like some odd statue of the Virgin Mary.

“Shh… The baby finally fell asleep. You’re such a barbarian, Avril.”

“Barbarian?! Oh, it’s the baby from next door.”

Neighbors, seeking refuge, sat throughout the basement, women and children holding hands and praying. The baby’s young mother was next to Frannie, unmoving.

Before the war, the basement, which had no specific use other than storing jam or bottles of wine, had turned into the safest air-raid shelter in the neighborhood. Every time there was an air raid alarm, people walking nearby would rush in and pound the forehead of the reassuring plaster bust of Sir Bradley. It was a sturdy room, and the fact that Sir Bradley’s widow always remained remarkably calm, as befitting the wife of a great adventurer, also gave them peace of mind.

After instructing Frannie to clean up the broken glass, Avril left the basement.

“Be careful out there!” Frannie said.

“I will!”

Stepping onto the street, Avril unloaded bags of supplies from the car and carried them to the kitchen. Then, she hopped back into the driver’s seat.

As she started driving, she noticed a young woman with an injured middle-aged lady. Avril hit the brakes.

“If you’re going to the church, hop in! I’m heading there too.”

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver, young lady.”

With the injured person in the back seat and the young woman in the front seat, Avril drove the car.

The night sky, tinted red moments ago, had returned to its usual deep blue. The winter wind was biting cold.

Glancing at the back seat, the woman asked, “Are these bandages? And disinfectant too? How on earth did you manage to buy so much in these times?”

“My grandfather had a lot of connections. I go by car to buy them. Usually, my cousin comes with me, but this time it was far, so I went alone. I didn’t want to leave grandma at home without company.”

“So, you’re taking them to the church?”

“Yup.”

They turned at the intersection. A large hole in the road prompted a huge detour. Due to the air raid, there were hardly any people out, cars, or carriages. A smoky and sinister smell permeated the town.

Finally, the spire of the church came into view. The woman heaved a huge sigh of relief and made the sign of the cross.

The spacious chapel, now devoid of pews, had been repurposed into a temporary hospital with rows of makeshift beds. There were so many injured that the hospital couldn’t accommodate them all. Tonight, a mix of young soldiers injured in the battlefield and civilians wounded in the air raid—children, women, the elderly—lay everywhere, waiting patiently for the few doctors and nurses available.

The woman took care of the injured person, while Avril carried the heap of bandages.

The church was filled with cries, anguished moans, quiet whispers of prayers. Moonlight pouring through the rose windows illuminated the medieval religious paintings on the walls. A silver cross shone in front of the altar, the crucified figure of Christ glistening under the light of the moon. The worn-out red carpet bore dark splotches soaked with the blood of the injured.

With familiar steps, Avril proceeded through the church and placed the mountain of bandages in its designated spot. She returned to the car to pick up the disinfectant, then entered the church again.

As she passed by, a burly middle-aged doctor—an acquaintance at this point—casually grabbed Avril by the back of her neck.

“Hold it right there. Don’t take off just yet. We’re short-staffed. Mind giving us a hand, little miss adventurer from the Bradley family?”

“What? But I don’t have a license.”

“I’m pretty sure God will give you a temporary nurse’s license just for tonight. Look.”

The doctor pointed with his index finger, and Avril turned her head to follow its direction, looking up.

A figure of the Virgin Mary, tilting her head in sorrow, arms spread out tenderly, overlooked the wounded that filled the chapel. A statue that had been in this church since medieval times, its eyes were spilling bright red liquid, streaming down to its neck.

The Holy Mother shedding tears of blood.

Avril’s breath seized in her throat.

Tonight, the ancient gods, covered in blood, had appeared in this church too, grieving for the dying and the rapidly changing times. Avril gaped at the statue silently, lips quivering. Was she about to scream, or trying to utter words of prayer? The doctor pulled her away, snapping her back to her senses, and she took off to assist someone in need.

“The books are rather noisy tonight.”

Paris, the capital of the French Republic.

In a downtown area, a bit removed from the central district that featured the remnants of palaces and museums, stood a quaint shopping street constructed of iron and glass. The dim street hosted an array of small and distinctive shops—a peculiar doll shop, a secret perfume boutique, a jewelry store showcasing unconventional designs, a hat store.

In the corner, near the entrance of a small bookshop, a young man with a slender frame lounged casually by the window, whispering in hushed tones. Leaning against the wall, he was gazing at the night sky, when suddenly, as if awakening from a reverie, he surveyed the interior with a puzzled expression.

While the shop appeared modest from the outside, stepping in revealed a peculiar structure, with three floors, a high ceiling, and a basement. Wooden spiral staircases provided access to all the levels, and chairs dotted the space. Despite the late hour, there were still a few customers inside.

The young man sported golden hair tied back loosely like a horse’s tail. His emerald green eyes, appearing serene at first glance, sparkled with curiosity and delight. Dressed in the latest Parisian youth fashion—a grass-green sweater over a white shirt blouse, adorned with an agate brooch—he seemed an employee of the store.

The refined, middle-aged female owner appeared from the back. “Ambrose, are you still here?”

“Yes, Madame!” The young man jumped down from the window. “What can I do for you?”

“Could you assist this customer here?”

An elderly gentleman informed the young man—Ambrose, a descendant of the Gray Wolves—about the book he was searching for.

Ambrose responded with evident delight, nodding repeatedly. “The book you’re looking for is on the third floor. I will show you the way. Oh, please watch your step.”

Ambrose, eyes twinkling, provided wise responses to every question, leaving the learned gentleman wide-eyed.

“Well, I’ll be. A young man like you, so stylish, like a typical Parisian…”

“Me? A typical Parisian?” Ambrose looked genuinely pleased.

“Yes. So knowledgeable about medieval European literature. Even your pronunciation suddenly turns medieval. It’s as if you actually lived in those ancient times.”

Ambrose laughed. “I actually did.”

“Hmm?”

The gentleman, thinking it a jest, couldn’t resist bursting into laughter, captivated by Ambrose’s infectious smile.