Swan Tales

1. Tale 1: THE CROIX DE GUERRE OF JACQUES LA CLAIR by Foutaine Buchard

As a young French couple begins to renovate their house for their expanding family, they are surprised to find a journal secreted in the wall. Written by one of the wife’s uncles, it recounts the namesake of their youngest child, a soldier wounded in World War II.

18 Tale 2: BENTEAR

A city-bred, street-wise lonely mutt tries to survive when cast into a new environment.

23 Tale 3: THE DERELICT

A deep space rescue ship, Hopicus 7/21, searches for missing ship Intrepid 130/8Alpha.

33 Tale 4: NIGHT AND DAY

A recent divorcee withers the trials and tribulations of the new men in her life.

39 Tale 5: THE LOOKOUT

A seaman endures his horror while on lookout duty.

44 Tale 6: THE MARRIAGE MANAGERS

In a time of a greatly diminished male population, marriage councils arrange for new marriages.

62 Tale 7: FROM THE JOURNALS OF A SEAMAN, 1885-1935: SHIPWRECKED! by Captain Thaddius Saltonstahl

The sole survivor of a shipwreck must find a way to survive on his own.

71. Tale 8: THE BICYCLE by Thomas Traden

To attain his goal of buying a bicycle, a boy must pay his dues with the town devil.

84 Tale 9: BYRNES ONE-ZERO-TWO

A crash firefighter and an old crash firefighting truck come together one last time.

100 Tale 10: THE LAST CHRISTMAS CARD

What does one do with one last Christmas card? Toss it out, save it--or find a use for it?

TALE 1:

THE CROIX DE GUERRE OF JACQUES LA CLAIR By Foutaine Buchard

Monique and I knew the time had come to expand our small farmhouse: with four small children in two tiny rooms, and her belly swollen with yet another on the way, we just had to have more space. Being the practical people we are, and lacking the francs to afford a carpenter, we made our plans accordingly.

Our home is a basic farmhouse, a cottage really, with the main rooms downstairs and a bedroom for us; upstairs are the two small bedrooms where the children sleep. We thought it would be easiest to expand the house through our small dining area, just adding a section for more room. We didn’t have enough money for another bathroom, so our costs would be minimal.

Our woodlot would provide the trees for the framing, sides and shakes for the roof. Never mind about all this; perhaps sometime I can tell you about all these – not always perfect – experiences.

What is important occurred the day we were to break through the wall separating the original house and the completed new addition so we could finish the interior work. One reason we had selected the spot where we had planned to put the door was due to the inner wall being slightly different in that area, as if it had been damaged at some point in time, then repaired. It was a mild eyesore and not as smooth as the rest of the wall, and I had promised Monique many times more than once that I would repair it.

Perhaps that is why she handed me the hammer with such great joy, for she knew opening the wall would mean the end of this displeasing feature--and my broken promises, too. I am convinced it was a conspiracy of hers to have all these little Buchards just so we would need more room, and then I had to do this job, all so the wall would finally get the overdue attention it deserved. (And what man knows what really motivates a woman? After all, Freud studied them for over thirty years, and even he admitted he didn’t understand them.)

Well, anyway, I now resolved not to put off any such job in the future: How many more Buchards can we afford?

So, I took the hammer, but Monique suddenly stopped me. She ran into the kitchen (as fast as a very pregnant woman can do the ‘whale waddle’) and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She poured each of us a serving, clinked hers to mine, and gave her toast: "To the end of that damned unsightly wall!" Her victory was complete.

Enough! I took a wide swing, and brought the hammer crashing into the plaster. The section crumbled surprisingly easily, pieces falling onto the old sheets Monique had thoughtfully placed beside the wall. Cheers went up from Monique and the children, all except for Jacques, our most recent baby, but he grinned his four-tooth smile. How odd it felt to see Monique relish this moment, for there is nothing more sacred to a farmer’s wife than her home, and everything in it; even its abnormalities are so precious that damage to anything is treated as a deep loss.

I struck the wall again, and more of the plaster crumbled away, but not much of the lath: it appeared to have been cut out from the studs to a height of about half a meter. I was about to strike the wall again, when Monique called me to stop, for she thought she had seen something.

She leaned over, and gingerly reached into the opening, and withdrew her hand, holding what appeared to be a ledger, bound with wood covers and well stained for preservation. The binding consisted of three small bolts through the back, and a rusting metal strap secured the unopened other end.

Carefully, Monique undid the latch and opened the book. Although the outer edges of the pages were yellowed, they were not damaged and she was able to separate them. It appeared to be a diary, and while the ink was faded, the writing was still legible. We took the book over to the table and sat down. So we would not be disturbed, we sent the children to play, and they were kind enough to take the baby with them.

Monique began to read, slowly at first, until she became familiar with the penmanship and was able to improve her speed:

1 August 1941. Today I went to the auxiliary hospital with the old nag to bring home my nephew. I had not seen him since the beginning of the war. I went sadly, for I knew what lay ahead of him would be hard, harder than most of us had to endure in this sad chapter of French history.

On my way, I resolved to record these events even though I never thought of writing a diary before. For what reason? Even I cannot say. Perhaps because I sense he will be the last member of our family to survive, but if he should not be well enough to do so, at least I can keep his memory alive.

Poor Jaques La Clair.

"Poor Jacques La Clair!" my wife exclaimed. "Is it my uncle, our little son’s namesake?"

"It appears so, Monique. Did you ever know what really happened to him?"

"No, it’s always been a mystery."

"Then read on."