Tender Mercies
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 4
The snow came that first night.
Clarice woke before dawn, as she always did, and went to the window. White. Everything white. The pasture, the barn roof, the path to the cheese cellar—all of it covered in two inches of fresh snow.
Her knees went weak with relief.
Any tracks she and Scotty had made the night before—the churned mud where they’d struggled across the field, the disturbed ground around the cellar entrance, any drops of blood—all of it erased.
Merci, mon Dieu. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Merci.
It was the first tender mercy. She didn’t know yet that she would need dozens more before this was over.
The morning routine couldn’t change. That was the first rule of survival she’d learned under occupation: keep to your patterns. Any deviation drew attention.
So she milked the cows—Celeste first, then Marguerite, then Sophie and Belle. Her hands were clumsy with cold and fear, but she forced them steady. The cats wound around her ankles, hoping for spilled milk. She gave them nothing today.
Only after the milking was done, the cows fed and settled, did she allow herself to gather supplies. A small pot of weak broth, left over from her own meager supper. More bread. A tin cup. Clean rags and a precious bottle of iodine from her dwindling medical supplies.
And this time, a small oil lamp. She couldn’t keep working in complete darkness.
The snow had stopped, but the sky remained heavy and grey. More coming, probably. She crossed the pasture with her shawl pulled tight, moving as quickly as she dared without looking rushed. If anyone was watching—and someone was always watching—she was just checking on her cheese stores. Nothing unusual. Nothing to report.
The cellar door was frozen shut. She had to work the latch twice before it gave.
“Scotty?” she called softly as she descended. “I am coming down.”
No answer.
Her heart lurched. She fumbled with the lamp, got it lit with shaking hands.
The small flame pushed back the darkness, and she saw him.
Still in the corner where she’d left him, wrapped in the blanket. But his eyes were closed and his face was the color of tallow. The blood from his head wound had crusted dark in his hair.
“Scotty.” She set down the lamp and supplies, knelt beside him. Pressed her hand to his forehead.
Burning. He was burning up.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “Mom?” he mumbled. “Mom, I can’t ... the engine’s out, I can’t...”
Merde. Delirium.
She grabbed the tin cup, splashed water on one of the rags, and pressed it to his forehead. “Scotty. Scotty, you must wake up. You must be quiet.”
He thrashed weakly, the movement making him cry out. His shoulder. She’d forgotten about his shoulder.
“Shh, shh.” She held the cloth to his head, trying to cool the fever. “Please, you must be quiet. Please.”
“Jimmy,” he gasped. “Jimmy, bail out, the wing’s on fire—”
She clamped her hand over his mouth.
He struggled against it, but he was too weak to fight her. His ice-blue eyes rolled, unseeing.
She held her hand there, her other hand still pressing the cool cloth to his forehead, and prayed.
Please. Please don’t let him scream. Please don’t let anyone hear.
After what felt like hours but was probably only seconds, he quieted. His eyes closed again. His breathing rasped harsh and uneven.
She removed her hand slowly, ready to clamp it back down if he started shouting again.
He mumbled something else—names she didn’t know, words she didn’t understand—but quietly. Just fevered mutterings into the darkness.
Clarice sat back on her heels, her own heart hammering.
This was worse than she’d thought. Much worse.
She stayed as long as she dared that first morning. Got a little broth into him, though most of it dribbled down his chin. Cleaned the head wound as best she could with iodine and fresh bandages. Tried not to look at his shoulder, grotesque and swollen under the flight jacket.
“I will come back,” she told him, though he was too far gone to hear. “Midday. I will come back.”
She climbed out, closed the door, and stood in the snow trying to catch her breath.
Then she went to the convent.
Sister Marguerite met her in the kitchen garden, ostensibly to discuss the week’s milk delivery. The older nun’s face was lined and weathered, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s.
“You look terrible, child,” she said without preamble.
“I need your help.” Clarice glanced around, ensuring they were alone. “Medical help. For ... a shoulder. Dislocated.”
Sister Marguerite went very still. Then: “I see.”
“And fever. High fever. Head wound.”
“I see,” the nun said again. Her voice was carefully neutral. “This patient. He is on your property?”
“In a safe place.”
“And the Germans?”
“Came last night. Found nothing.”
Sister Marguerite nodded slowly. Then she reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.