‘He himself bore our sins in his body upon the cross,

so that, free from sin, we might live for righteousness.’

Peter 2:24

22^nd March 1916 – Verdun

Dehydration. Despair. Death. Here it’s inescapable. There’s mud in my ears, my hair, my boots and despite feeling clogged with it, the wailing  still breaks through to my eardrums, as painful as it was the first time. That desperate, dry, howling rattles around in my skull, loud and constant.

This time is different. He’s not screaming for his own salvation or pleading with me for penance. He’s asking after someone. Phillipe. Phillipe. Has anyone seen him? He was there. He was whole. He was with me and then- Nobody has the heart to tell him. In any case, it’s too late. I’ve been called in. They’ll be reunited soon enough.

I pick up my copy of The Holy Bible, which creaks when I open it, and slide my creased hands unsteadily over the swollen pages. I flip to the dog-eared prayer and take in a deep breath. ‘O Holy Hosts above, I call upon thee as a servant of Jesus Christ to sanctify our actions on this day in preparation for the fulfilment of the will of God.’

The boy, for he can be no older then seventeen, sobs as realisation dawns. Clinging to the mangled stump that was once a fully functioning leg with his remaining hand, he shakes his head. He’s my third conscious one today, so I try not to make eye contact – a personal rule to keep me sane.

By the time I’m done with the invocation and the dedication of the soul, he’s barely cognisant. Rocking in place on the blood-soaked cot, he starts to sob over and over. Philippe. My Phillippe. The rites catch in my throat for a moment, but I power through. I have to.

‘In the name of The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit, what is your confession?’

Against my will, I catch his glassy eyes. He’s lying still now, tears running down his smooth skin. Phillippe. His pupils dilate and plead with me, but not for forgiveness. That’s not what he needs. He reaches out and grabs desperate hold of my robes. Will I meet him there? Is he waiting for me? I turn to the next page to continue the passage.

            ‘By this sign, thou art anointed with the grace of the atonement of Jesus Christ and thou art absolved of all past error and freed to take your place in the world he has prepared for us.’

            His grip slackens and his arm hangs lifelessly from the cot. I make the cross on his forehead with holy oil and run my fingers across his face to close his eyes. His death doesn’t seem to bring him peace or solace. He just looks like a corpse.

‘Amen.’

In a flurry of motion, the tent’s covering is flung apart and the boy is carried out of my sight, hand still reaching out to me. A screaming body is hauled inside to replace him. Another conscious one. I hadn’t even had time to put my bible down this time. Sighing, I flip back to the previous page and make the preparations to start again.

17^th February 1882 – Paris

I’ve a cocktail glass of kir in one hand and my princely cape clutched tightly in the other. From across the room, a curlicued adonis is casting me heady glances from behind a greek mask and my heart is fluttering. I’m not sure whether it’s the atmosphere, the drinks or the low-lidded looks that are making me intoxicated, but I’m having a whale of a time.

There’s a bonfire in the centre of the gardens casting a romantic glow on the whole affair. A parade of paper faces glides in a whirling waltz around it without care that dress gauze and cape cuffs are coming flinchingly close to the flames. Their revelry is accompanied by the high-tempo tootling of a wind orchestra and the boom-boom beat of a percussion band.

I’m lucky enough to be standing in the grounds of the Palais Garnier, attending the finest party in all of Paris, but despite my happy disposition, the welcoming atmosphere and the free-flowing wine, I’m feeling a mite nervous. The Viscount, Alexandre Robert, who was kind enough to extend me an invitation, is nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps he’s forgotten all about me, gotten too caught up in the enchanting mystery of the masquerade. Perhaps I should forget all about him and go and dance with the particularly alluring gentleman who is, dear Lord, striding towards me, cutting through the crowd as though it wasn’t there. He extends a golden hand towards me and I take it.

Then I’m amidst the waltzing patrons, swirling and swinging. My sweaty hand is caught in his, the moisture rubbing his body-paint onto me, but I find myself not caring. I’m dizzy and giddy and laughter is bubbling out of me uncontrollably but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s laughing too, deep and rumbling.

We’re chest to chest in front of the unknowing gathering and I’m breathing fast. We’re heart to heart and I can feel his life beating in time with mine. We’re head to head, hand to hand, lips to lips and he’s saying my name. I didn’t think you’d come, François. But I did come and I knew that voice. I knew it as Alexandre’s.

Somehow that heightens every touch, shared breath and kiss. I’m exhilarated, I’m dancing with the viscount in plain sight and nobody is even giving us a second glance. Are we a common sort

As I spin, watching where I put my feet, I see bits and pieces of the people around me. Fine silk gowns sweep across the paving stones, shiny shoes are scuffed by occasional missteps and Alexandre and I are gliding in perfect unison around and around. My vision is hazy.

From there the evening takes a sensual turn and I find myself swept up from my feet to the confines of the Viscount’s chambers, to his bed, to his arms. I hold him, he holds me and we move together.

It’s not harmonious or well choreographed or earth-shattering. We’re drunk and inexperienced and filled with too much anticipation, but it’s perfect and when it’s over, filled with a wonderful weariness, I collapse back into his bed sheets and sigh.

He’s already drifting to sleep, but that’s alright. I’m barely holding onto my consciousness too, trying to savour the way the moonlight breaks through the gap in the curtains and falls across his paint-smeared skin. Memorising the fan of his eyelashes over his rosy cheeks and the rise and fall of his chest.

I fall asleep to the sound of our combined breathing and the feel of his hand in mine.

01^th May 1885  – Paris

Nothing could have prepared me for how this would feel. My insides feel like they’re on fire and I want to rip out every hair on my head. Rage bubbles dangerously close to the surface, but outwardly, I display the perfect priestly countenance.

‘We are gathered here today to unite these two souls, our own fine Count Alexandre Robert and the lady Marguerite DuPont, in the bonds of holy matrimony.’

The wedding is an opulent occasion. Noble ladies and gentlemen stuff the pews with a sea of feathered hats and walking canes and the line of eager onlookers reaches far beyond the great double doors to the great swarm outside. Fabulous rose bouquets decorate the benches and the walls and somewhere behind the alter a pair of doves are flapping their wings irritably in a too-small cage.

I’m at the lectern with a stretched smile on my face.

Much to my despair, the bride is radiant. She’s hanging from the crook of Alexandre’s arm like a painted doll. Her veil has been pushed back to reveal her big blue eyes and her painted-pink porcelain skin. In a way, I feel sorry for her. It must be hard to breath with those sizable breasts wedged into such a tight dress.

Alexandre is smiling the same wide smile that I am, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but there’s nothing that can be done. He’s a rising star, the newly appointed Count with a beautiful and wealthy bride on his arm. Where he’s going, I can’t follow and so as he rises, I fall.

‘Do you Count Alexandre Robert take this lady to be your lawfully wedded wife?’

I do.

I don’t look at him as he says it. I can’t bear to.

‘And do you Lady Marguerite DuPont, take this man?’

I rather do.

            Her laughter sounds like jingling bells, high and light, and her nose scrunches cutely when she smiles. It doesn’t make her look like a pig but I make the mental comparison out of bitterness. I forcefully flip to the next page in my bible and continue the wedding.

‘If anyone objects to this union, you should speak now or forever hold your peace.’

Alexandre catches my gaze and holds it. His eyes are wet, but his smile-bunched cheeks are dry. I know that he wants me to say it, I want to say it just as badly, but I don’t. I hold it in and my free hand quakes behind the lectern from the effort.

‘You may now kiss the bride.’

And he does.

Between their heads, I can see Jesus Christ, suspended above the church doors on a golden crucifix. His eyes are open and wide. His jaw is slack. He died for our sins and now it’s my turn to die. I bore my heart, though not upon a cross, so that, free from sin, he may live for righteousness.

21^st June 1916 – Verdun

The deep breath I take smells like decay. The foul scent of dead flesh has made its way into everything now. It’s on our clothes, in our hair and has taken hold of the air we breathe.

Thirst is now my constant state of existence. Sometimes I go for days without a single drop to drink. Last Thursday, I was finally given something to eat that wasn’t mouldy or reeking. It’s worse than it’s ever been, much worse.

Part of the unbearable nature of being a chaplain is seeing the light leave a person’s eyes over and over and over again. I’ve ran out of actual Eucharists and have been substituting my own suppers so that they might have that last meal before death.

I want it to end now. It’s been months and those months have felt like years and my old bones are aching. I’m not sure how I’ve lasted this long, but I’m ready for the end now. I’m ready to be judged.

I’ve seen men with skin burned black to the point that they couldn’t be recognised. I’ve seen broken men singing to their daughters and wives and mothers with jaws attached only by sinew. I’ve seen bits and pieces of grenadiers carried to me by stony faced stretcher-bearers and had to discern where precisely their forehead was to draw my cross.

That’s enough now.

That’s quite enough.

So I head out to the front lines and I drag my aged body up out into the open, tootling a peppy panpipe tune from my years gone by. I remember the fire and the golden light and the fluttering in my heart.

I close my eyes and his face is there. Alexandre. He’s wearing that mask. The mask I fell in love with. His hand is stretched out to mine, an invitation to dance, and I reach out to take it. It’s soft and warm and I grasp hold of it with all the might my old, wrinkled hand can muster.

There’s howling behind me. Soldiers are pounding the dirt, demanding I get down, run back to safety. Their screams drown out to the sound of the waltz and the beating of his heart. He twirls me and I follow his footsteps. My youth returns to me and the skin of my hands is soft and smooth as I stroke his face.

I draw him close to me and tilt my head. His lips–