Henri Martin

The snow gently fell from the sky, like tiny feathers, covering the ground beneath it. It reflected the moon's light and softened the sounds of my footsteps. I love the snow. When my son, Henri, was young, we’d play in the snow together every time it snowed. It was one of the few things that brought us comfort after my husband’s passing, but we moved past that.

I’ve been gone for a few years. My father wrote to me one day, he said my mother was sick and needed help around the house. He couldn’t do it in his old age, so he asked if me and Henri could move in and help them. Henri couldn’t, for he was stricken with love and wished to remain with her. I left but promised to return when I could.

Now I’m back. I remember the route to the house. I walk past the small library, only one candle burning in a window. I take a left at the town hall, a lonely snowman stands on the lawn. I go through the market, all the stands are vacant. I take a left at the end of the street and see the familiar yellow building. The only light is from the moon. The house is still and quiet.

I see the tree next to what was once my window. There used to be a bird's nest there. Now there’s nothing. I see the bushes by the front door. They were once green and lively, now they’re dull and dead.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

…

“Henri?!” I call out to him. There’s no reply. “Maybe he’s still working.” I turn around and start to make my way back.

I take a right at the corner and make my way through the market. The snow covers the vacant stands. I take a right and arrive at town hall. The lonely snowman’s hat has fallen off his head. I walk up to the building and see a sign.

“Closed in observance.”

“In observance of what?” I say as I pick up the sign and turn it around. There’s no more information. “Where is he?” I turn around and start to walk.

The lonely snowman’s nose was being eaten by a squirrel. I take a left from the town hall and enter the market. There I see a young man hammering a sign onto a stand. I walk up to him.

“It’s quite late to be opening your stand,” I say to the man.

“I’m not opening yet, I’m just claiming a spot.” He said, turning to me. “It’s quite late to be wandering about alone.”

“I’m looking for my son, I haven’t seen him in years. I was taking care of my mother until her passing, and now that she has passed I have returned. I went to our house but he was not home, so I went to his work. When I got to his work, it was closed for observance.” I said.

“I offer my condolences. As for town hall, there was an attack at town hall yesterday, I doubt they’ll be open at all this week.” My heart sank as those words hit my ears. He noticed my face. “There was only one death, a hero.” A rat scurried down a small alley. “He stalled the foes until the police arrived, but he was stricken by fire.”

“Fire?” I said in surprise.

“Fire.” He confirmed. “The foes grabbed a candle and threw it at him just as the police were arriving. His clothes caught aflame, then he caught aflame, but he did not scream. He yelled. He yelled at the attackers, ‘Leave before my fire consumes you!’ In fear, they ran out of the hall. They screamed for the police, ‘Help! Help! There is a devil in the hall! He has come to punish us! Help! Help!”

“What was this mighty hero’s name?” I asked.

“I know not, for aught I know is that people have visited his grave at the church and offered prayers for him. I have not been able to visit yet.”

“He must be there then. My son is a kind-hearted boy, he’d offer prayers for all unfortunate souls. He must be there then, offering his prayers to the hero of flame. Thank you for your help, I’ll visit your stand tomorrow.” I waved goodbye and turned around.

The church. The church was straight pass the town hall, it was just before the edge of town. I walked straight pass the town hall. The lonely snowman’s head had been knocked off. I arrived at the church just as Father Louis was leaving.

“Father Louis!” I called to him and he turned to face me. “It has been a few years since I last attended your service, Father.”

“Marie-Anne, I have missed your rhythm in my choir.” He said as I approached him at the bottom of the stairs.

“Father, has my son been here to offer praise to the hero of flame?” I asked. His face was grim when I asked and he offered me his hand.

“Follow me.” He said. I took his hand. It was cold, ice cold. I could tell he’s been out here many hours, helping guide the prayers for the hero. Why had he become so cold when I asked about Henri? Where is Henri? Is he not here, has he not been here at all?

He led me to a grave. “Here is the hero.” The stone was covered in snow. The wind began to blow the snow into my face. The soft snow. Henri loves the snow, he must be out with his fiance, enjoying the snow.

I wiped the snow off the stone. The wind blew tiny shards of ice into my face. It stung. It hurt. Cold raindrops fell on my cheeks. “Henri Martin” the stone read. I looked down in shock. I closed my eyes and opened them again

Henri Martin… I closed my eyes again.

Henri Matin… My hands were cold. I looked at them. My fingers were red.

“Henri Martin.” I said to myself.

“He was a hero and kind soul. He even worried for the ones who killed him.” The Father said.

“Henri Martin…” I read it again. “My son… My mother… My husband…”