The Shadow Of The Mole

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

The nightmare had its effect – the following morning Denis chose the abrupt approach. He had picked the moment intuitively. The Mole was sitting outside by himself, smoking a pipe and watching some men operating the pump set up between the trees. They were going for the biggest priority: dry trenches. The sky was overcast. Greyness skulked everywhere, draping its moist haze across the world. The trees, usually a deep brown wall, were enveloped in a shroud that from a distance resembled a dirty bed sheet.

As always, The Mole wore his serious and rigid expression. Denis sat down beside him, and, seeing that the man’s pipe was as good as empty, offered him some tobacco. The Mole accepted without a word, and filled his pipe slowly, concentrating on the task.

They both puffed smoke.

“You know,” Denis said, “nerve damage caused by a great shock can be temporary. You can be cured. The psychic turmoil you experience is ecstatic or doctrinal. Out of self-preservation, the ecstatic types withdraw into a world the mind creates for them, thinking that they cannot survive in the real world after suffering such chagrin. The doctrinal types react to the tumult of their life by nurturing some obsession so their mind can fixate on that and doesn’t have to take account of reality. I think you’re ecstatic. That type has the best prognosis for recovering sanity.”

Silence.

They smoked, and heard the men cursing as they handled the pump.

“Give me pen and paper,” said The Mole at last. “I must write my story. It has to be chronicled.”

Denis wondered about the formality of that answer and wanted to say: You see, here you go again, making yourself the centre of the world you’ve created in yourself.

He bit away his irritation and answered, “Fine, I’ll see to that.” Unexpectedly, it occurred to him that he no longer knew who he had been before a grenade had ripped his right arm from his body. What kind of person was he when his body was intact? Which dreams did he cherish?

He remembered searing heat, that was all.

“Time is running out,” The Mole said.

He didn’t tell for whom.

He didn’t have to. Out of its grey cloak, the war rose again, staging its booming sounds.

One moment, two soldiers opposite one another stood with their arms outstretched to push the pump lever down so that it looked as if they were saluting each other; the next, they were gone in blinding light and acrid smoke.

The shock wave toppled The Mole and Denis. Dazed, they lay partially upon each other on the soil. They smelled the stench of burnt flesh.

Their faces almost touched each other. Denis saw a predator’s look in The Mole’s eyes, fierce and intent. Then they changed, and Denis was face to face with a man lost in an inner inferno.