All right, so this little thing was originally inspired by Carrie Underwood’s song, “Just A Dream,” so don’t expect it to be cheerful. Just read it, review it, and that’s all I can ask of you.

Fairytale

The June day was warm, with a light breeze saving it from being unpleasant. Amy Masen’s brown curls whipped around her face as the convertible bulleted down the highway at thirty kilometres over the posted speed limit. Her green eyes shone behind the dark sunglasses, and happy laughter rang in Ian MacKenzie’s ears. He himself was grinning ear to ear, blue eyes bright with humour as he watched his girlfriend put his new car through its paces.

“Exit’s coming up, Ame. Slow down a little, would you?”

She shot him one quick, reckless grin. “You’re no fun, Ian.” But her foot eased off the accelerator.

He chuckled, unoffended. “I know you’re enjoying my car, and your freedom from school, but I have no desire to wreck it just yet.”

“Oh, fine,” she muttered. “Wish I knew where we were going,” she added, glancing around. He only gave a small, secretive smile.

She tossed him a curious look, then paused at the stop sign, asking, “Which way now?”

The impatience and exasperation in her voice were palpable, and Ian smothered a grin. He knew that it was driving her insane, to be allowed to drive his car but not have any idea where she was going.

“Left,” he told her. “Not much farther now.”

“If you’d just tell me where we’re going...” she muttered, voice tailing off while she slid a hopeful glance his way.

“Nice try.”

She pouted. “You’re so frigging secretive. Drives me crazy.”

“That’s the point of surprises, honey.”

“Still.” She huffed out a sigh, then pulled into the little parking lot he indicated with his finger. Curiosity had her perking up again as she looked around, studied the whimsical little park. Trees lined a dirt path into the woods, sunlight filtering in through the leaves to make a cozy little shaded canopy. As she put the car in park, Amy slid her sunglasses off, perched them on top of her head and looked curiously about.

“Ian,” she asked slowly, “where are we?”

He smiled as he slid from the car, went around the hood to open her door and extend his hand. “Pop the trunk, would you?”

She did as asked, then took the offered hand to lift herself from the car. And watched, openmouthed, as he pulled a wicker basket from the trunk.

Grinning at the expression on her face, he took her hand in his, led her towards the trees. “Come on. We’re not there yet.”

“We’re not?” Confusion was thick in her voice, and he could practically see the gears turning in her head as she tried to work it out. It had rained steadily for the last two weeks, since the day after her birthday. Ever since he’d told her that her birthday present could only be given on a clear, sunny day, Amy had been thinking furiously to try and figure it out, with no luck.

Ian hadn’t said anything when he’d arrived with the gorgeous red Mustang, or when he’d invited her to come for a drive. But she knew, just knew, this was it. Whatever it was.

“Stop here.” His voice was quiet, stopped her in her tracks. Amy lifted her head, the thoughtful frown replaced by wide-eyed wonder as she stared around her.

The little clearing was completely serene, an oasis of peace away from their hometown and the nearby cities. On the far side a stream burbled gently; birds sang cheerfully in the trees; bright-coloured flowers dotted the rich green grass that was dappled by shade and filtering sunlight.

“Ian.” Her voice was soft, stunned. “How... how did you find this?” she asked wonderingly.

“I looked,” he answered easily. “Come sit, Amy.”

She was about to say that there was nowhere besides the grass to sit, then realized he wasn’t beside her anymore, but was spreading a checked blanket over the grass by the stream. He sat down, bending one leg at the knee to rest his elbow on it while he stretched the other ahead of him. His other arm was held out, waiting for her.

It felt almost like sacrilege, but she moved forward towards him with her eyes still taking in her surroundings, and as he watched the young woman in the brown sundress advance, Ian thought she belonged here, thought she may as well have been a wood nymph, coming towards him to ask why he was invading her home.

Fairytale stuff, he scolded himself, and gave himself a mental shake.

Amy sat beside him slowly, still dazzled. Then she grinned up at him. “This is beautiful. I love it.” She turned her face up for a quick kiss, then pressed close and sighed.

“Want food?”

“Mm... sounds good,” she decided, and let him go long enough to pull out sandwiches and pasta and potato salads, a bottle of champagne and two crystal glasses.

She let out a low whistle when she read the label. “Fancy stuff. What’s the occasion?”

He smiled again, but Amy thought it didn’t reach his eyes. They were too intent, too serious for the question. “You.”

Startled, she glanced up at him, frowning lightly. “Me?”

He nodded. “You,” he confirmed. “Here.” He took her hand, put the car keys in it, watched as her gaze trailed down to frown in bewilderment at the keys in her hand.

“I get to drive home?” she guessed, looking back up to him for an answer.

“You can, but that’s not all.” Something about his tone wasn’t right. It was too intense, too serious again. As though it was a matter of life and death. “You get the car, Amy.”

Her heart gave one hard thud in her chest. “It’s mine? Ian, you can’t afford that! I love it, you know I do, but you really shouldn’t have! It’s not that big a deal!”

He cut her off by laying a finger against her lips, then replacing it with his mouth. When he pulled back he said gently, “You didn’t let me finish.”

“Oh. Okay.” She relaxed, but only slightly. He was still wearing that life-or-death expression. “Ian, what’s this all about?”

He didn’t answer, only turned to get something else from the basket. When he turned back to her, the little velvet box in his hand made her heartbeat falter.

“Ian.” For the first time, her voice quivered.

“Shh.” He opened the box, watched her blink at the sight of the ring, snugly nestled into its nest of fabric, the diamond catching the faint sunlight and winking it back at her.

The car keys fell from Amy’s limp hand. Her eyes, when they came back up to his, were damp. “Ian...” She whispered it, reached out slowly to finger the soft cushion the ring rested in. “Ian, we have time. I love you, you know that, but it’s early for this, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think so. Amy, I’m leaving in a week, and I hope you’ll wait for me to come back. I want to make sure I have something to come back to.”

Comprehension, hurt, and acceptance flashed into her eyes in quick succession. “You joined up.” The three words were barely audible.

“I have to do something, Amy. People from town are going, Canadian men and women are dying. I’m sitting here safe, and lucky, and alive.” He lifted a hand, brushed it gently over her cheek. “Somewhere in Iraq or Afghanistan,” he said quietly, needing her to understand this as she understood the rest of him so well, “there are women like you who have lost their brothers, husbands, fathers. Men who have lost women like you, their wives, sisters, or mothers, to suicide bombs and shootings. I can’t stand by and think of that, let that happen. I have to go, Amy.”

She nodded numbly, waiting for the words to sink in, be real. Of course he would feel this way. As fiercely compassionate as he was, there was no way he would be able to stand idly by with a war going on in the Middle East. But that didn’t lessen the fear known to all soldiers’ loved ones.

“But, Ian...” She paused, swallowed. Her next words were only a whisper. “What if you die?”

He wrapped her into his arms, held her close. “I won’t,” he promised. “Not if I know you’re waiting for me. I want forever with you, Amy.” He skimmed his mouth over her jaw, down to her mouth for one slow, gentle kiss. Then drew back and whispered, “Promise me you’ll marry me when I get back. Promise me forever.”

She nodded, then buried her face against his chest. “Forever,” she breathed, blinking back tears.

—

10 September, 2009

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Amy,

You would have loved what we did today. We went out to a nearby village that’s been raided by the Taliban fairly frequently to provide them with supplies. All the kids came out to see us, to ask as best as they could for what their families needed. One little girl made sure a woman who could only be her grandmother was comfortable in her seat outside their house before coming over to me, pointing at her grandmother, and pointing at the boxes with medicine — regular stuff like Advil and that — in them, then the ones with blankets. She was a tiny little thing, badly malnourished, but she was ignoring the food to ask for medicine for her sick grandmother. It’s not something you think you’ll see very often.

We’re doing all right out here. We got the package you sent out, and the guys (I’m including the women in that — sorry if it sounds sexist) tore right into it. The desserts didn’t last the night, and even the Commander came by to steal a few. At night, or on our spare time, we don’t have much to do, so we talk about home, and the people waiting for us. One of the guys in camp is from a town not an hour from ours. Hard to believe, eh? We got to talking about our families, about the people waiting for us back home. I passed your picture around and made all the men jealous.

The nights are hot as hell here, the days even hotter, and there’s nothing but sand to see for miles and miles. I miss home, and our clearing, and you. There’ve been noises about two weeks’ leave soon, and we can stay home all day with the shades drawn if you want to. It doesn’t matter to me, so long as you’re there.

I’m counting down the hours til I see you again, til I’m holding you again. This will be the last time I go on leave before I come home, to you, for good.

Remember, you promised me forever. I’m holding you to that.

Ian

Amy paced the living room restlessly, her fingers pressed to her mouth and her eyes frantically scanning the pages. She couldn’t say what, couldn’t have voiced it or proved it, but there was something wrong, something telling her that not everything was the way it was meant to be.

She let out a frustrated sigh, dropping her fingers to the silver Celtic cross around her neck. Ian had bought the cross and chain for her at the Highland Games, an annual celebration held in honour of Scottish tradition and culture, with dancing, music, and, of course, drinking. What with the original settlers of the town and county having been largely Scottish, and with many of their descendants — such as Ian’s family — still residing in the area, it turned out to be a huge three-day party, with people flocking to it from all over North America.

Amy fingered the ring on her left hand. Besides the cross and ring, she wore no other jewelry. Sighing again, she looked sightlessly out the window.

She did know what was wrong. Almost infallibly from the time he’d shipped out, Ian had written once a week, if only to say he was all right.

She hadn’t had a letter in two weeks.

That doesn’t mean anything, she told herself, and to comfort herself, brought to mind the scenario she’d first conjured not long after Ian left for Afghanistan, an image she’d come to cling to.

She saw herself wearing a long, slim column of white with capped sleeves, could almost feel the thin veil falling over her eyes, could almost smell the bouquet of roses and tulips in her hands. She saw Ian’s and her loved ones, saw them turning to watch her with radiant smiles as she began her slow walk up the aisle of the church, saw Ian, standing at the altar in uniform, unscathed, waiting for her with his hand extended.

The quiet, no-nonsense knock at the door didn’t disrupt her fantasy, only forced her to shuffle it to the back of her mind. It will happen, she promised herself as she moved to the door.

Her smile turned baffled as the uniformed soldier on the other side tipped his hat to her, the chaplain who stood beside him standing as silent as a stone. “Ma’am.” His tone was low, sober, his face unsmiling, his eyes somber. “Letter for you.”

Slow, sinuous, and merciless, dread and the unwanted knowledge of what was coming next curled around her heart, squeezed tight. With fingers that had gone numb, she reached for the envelope he held in one gloved hand. The other hand he kept staunchly behind his back.

She didn’t thank him, only slowly lowered her gaze to the envelope as she turned it over, pried the flap loose with her thumb and slid out a single sheet of thick, creamy paper.

The official Government of Canada letterhead at the top of the page meant nothing to her. Nor did the date, or the name of the person writing. She skimmed her gaze over the neatly typed words, and as she read, felt her heart stop, felt her fairytale shatter.

It is our deepest regret to inform you that Private Ian Daniel MacKenzie has been killed in the line of duty.

The words were stark on the page, ruthless, emotionless. Impossible to mistake.

“No.” Amy whispered it, read the words again through the blurring of tears. “No, no, no...”

When her knees shook, gave way, she let herself sink to the ground, turning away from the soldier on her doorstep.

Not the soldier she wanted to see.

She whimpered as she laid her head against her knees and began to rock.

No, no, no, no...

As her keening sobs reached through the wood of the closed door the uniformed soldier sighed heavily and knuckled a tear from his eye, wondered if the image of the young woman’s face crumpling would ever leave him.

He already knew it wouldn’t.

Still the chaplain stood silent, not having had the chance to comfort the mourner who couldn’t be comforted.

—

Amy stood in silence by the coffin of gleaming oak, studying the Canadian flag draped over it. The strains of a single trumpet playing “The Last Post” sounded in her ears, the song that had always sounded so solemn at Remembrance Day ceremonies now giving her a feeling of utter, devastating loneliness.

How could you leave me? she asked the coffin. I promised you forever. Why didn’t we get it? Damn it, why?

The priest, a friend of Ian’s family, patted her arm and then began, slowly, “Let us bow our heads in prayer. Lord, please lift his soul, and heal this hurt...”

Amy couldn’t listen. She stood with rigid stiffness, barely stopping herself from flinging herself onto the coffin in a tearful mass. Her hand rested on the coffin, as though the dead man inside could feel its warmth.

In the back of the church, a soldier watched, tears in his own eyes.

—

The day they laid Ian MacKenzie in the ground was cool, the wind giving a hint of the winter that was to come. The deceased’s young fiancee stood resolutely with her back to the wind, watching with the tears flowing freely as soft clods of earth fell into the gaping hole, thudded on wood.

She had turned eighteen only two weeks before.

She was vaguely aware of who the pallbearers had been: friends and comrades from Ian’s unit, now safely returned to Canada. One by one they passed by, murmuring condolences. The last in line pressed the flag that had covered the coffin into her hands, and she clutched it as all she had left. Around her, the kinder people offered weak lines of sympathy such as “You must be proud to know he died for his country”. Some of the crueller ones commented, “He’s not coming home now.”

A volley of gunfire rang out over the quiet cemetery.

Amy sank to her knees and sobbed for everything that could have been and that they would never have.

—

END

—

So that’s that. Sad, I know, but how am I supposed to make war happy? I’m a writer, not a miracle-worker. Review, please. And yes, it was from a Canadian point of view.

— Murphy