​1914:

“Let me understand this. You’re not with the Red Cross, and you’re a nurse that has never patched a bullet wound, removed shrapnel from a man, or even fired a rifle.”

A man who looked to be about forty, was well muscled, a boyish face, and black, curly hair that formed a mop on his head replied. “Mostly true. I’m interested in children sir. And from what I understand the Boche have forced men and women from Belgium and northern France in droves. There are not enough doctors for the kids, as they’ve all been called up by either your English army or the French.” 

“Exactly. If you want to help, then patch up the men fighting to win this war.”

“Sir, you report to General French, correct?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Then, kindly tell him that it is impossible to say who is going to win this war. The German army pushed the allies nearly to Paris before the so called Miracle of the Marne. They are currently digging in along the river Aisne. Now before you ask, I heard that much from wounded soldiers I visited when I asked the Red Cross to support me. To do that I boarded their Mercy Ship where there were well over 5,000 casualties either being treated or waiting to be.”

“So you didn’t come over with the ship?”

“No. I was already in France when the war started. I came so I could find peace and a home.”

“Did you become French? And given your peacekeeping ways, I suppose your great desire is not to be a solider. Not hard to understand why you couldn’t fit in with a bunch of Yankee cowboys. Still, you’re not a socialist are you?”

“No sir. I'm not a socialist, and who ever said I was a peacekeeper? I road with  Teddy Roosevelt  in Cuba, when I was 22. Believe me I had quite enough of war there.”

“But you Yanks won that war.”

“If you can call it that, yes. But I see it as the start of a slippery slope to constantly shoving our noses in other peoples' business. Still, we are getting off point. And to put it bluntly, there are thousands of refugee women, some pregnant, others with newborns, and still others with children that are now malnourished and weak after fleeing from an advancing army coming one direction, only to be ignored by their own troops, who are hurrying after that same army now that it's retreating.  It’s a humanitarian catastrophe, and it grows worse by the minute. So I ask again. May I please have permission to set up a clinic for the children of the refugees in your rear. I swear, if needed I will retreat, and I can even serve two days a week in the army hospitals caring for the wounded, but all of my training is in caring for children.”
​
“Two days a week for the army and you pay for your own clinic and medicines.”
\For the first time since entering General Murray’s tent, a true smile cracked Jonathan Stewarts's face. “That is more than acceptable."

“Then set up you shop, and get to work. I will send someone to collect you in one week from today for your first shift in the field hospital. But just one question: why did you smile just now?”

“What isn’t to smile about? I'm going to help the people that did nothing wrong but are disproportionately force to bear the brunt of violence that they can’t participate in or control.”

“You’re daft. You know that, right,? and to be honest if you were British I’d see to it you were put in the front lines. But since you’re helping women and children, I suppose I can’t fault you too much. Good luck, and good day.

1917:

"General Ashmore, Captain Roberts reporting as ordered."

"Excellent. Now, that information that you sent up the chain on the enemy's movement was spot on and confirmed by our airplanes. But I wonder, how did you come by it?"

"Honestly, I didn't sir. There is a clinic run by a Jonathan Stewarts. Nobody knows where he came from, and he is not affiliated with any aid organization. However, he has been assisting us since mid-October of 1914. He is a Yank, but was given permission to set up by General Murray on condition that he provides his own medications and donates two days a week in one of our field hospitals."
​
"And we trust this man?"

"Sir, everyone trusts him. The men in the trenches up and down the line know his name, and if they are hit, he's the one they ask for. He also consistently procures the best drugs. We don't know who sends them or how he communicates his needs.  All we know is he sends two coded letters every month. It's always on the 7th and 21st of the month, and they are always addressed to one George Junior at the Central Railroad of New Jersey. However, we do not know if this was always the case, as we only starting looking into him during 1916. We've also been unable to crack that code."

"Why is that?"

"It was during the first day of the Somme. So many of the men were grievously wounded that we ran out of drugs, so our men marched into his clinic and took his whole stock. Used them right up too."
"That is our right."

"He didn't view it that way sir. His clinic is special in that it is set up specifically to help the civilian population of the area, and he's never made any distinction between friend or foe. Claims he is bound to aid all by his Hippocratic oath. But, as you know, the Somme was, well to put it politely sir, it was a shambles. And sure enough, after another bad day, we were running short on drugs so men were sent to raid Stewarts's supply. But there was a snag."

"Don't mince words."

"Sir, are you familiar with the Pinkerton Agency in the US?"

"Yes. Aren't they some kind of detective or police?"

"They are, but one of their men, a George Thiel, who was a spy in the Yank's Civil War, formed a lesser known competing agency, the Thiel Detective Service Company. That lot operates more like a private army, and bugger me if they were not there, dug in with machine guns around the shed they'd built to keep their supplies. We were then told, unceremoniously in my opinion, to piss off, bob's your uncle."

"Why was Stewarts not immediately shut down, tried for treason, and the drugs confiscated?"

"I don't know sir. But rumor is the American Ambassador had a word with both us and the French. Apparently news of the British and French robbing an American doctor was being printed in US newspapers. Between that, the fact we'd have to fight for the drugs, and that we did technically misappropriate them in the first place, the matter was dropped as were our effort to crack the code."

"Were the French part of it?"

"No."

General Ashmore frowned. He then stood and put on his calvary sword, glasses, hat, and snapped, "That's all a bit dodgy. Come with me. I think it time we pay this Stewarts a visit.  I want to know how he is getting his information, and I don't care if it will cause a stir. We are not Americans, and if they want to cause a fuss, let them." Then, without waiting for an acknowledgement, he marched out of his office.

                                                                 ***

General Ashmore's staff car trundled along the broken road. Dead horses, shell holes, and emaciated, mud-spattered troops lined the road.  As the car moved around yet another crater, Captain Roberts asked, "Sir, is it true the new French commander, Nivelle, is launching his planned offensive soon?"

"Any day now is my understanding. I also hear that if he doesn't succeed, he'll call off the attack and move troops over to our line so that we can properly boot these Huns."

"You think he'll succeed?"

"I don't know, but the politicians seem to. It's why they sacked Joffre."
"I thought they promoted him."

"My boy. When you get to a certain level and obtain a certain degree of fame, you never get fired. Just put to the side where you can do no more harm. Now. Is that it?" Ashmore pointed to a large tent on the outskirts near a speck of town called Wieltje.
"Yes sir. We're about halfway between our lines and the city of Ypres."

"Odd. Are not all our hospitals a little closer to the line?"

"Most are sir. But as I said, Stewarts wholly owns and funds this one and he is a bit starkers."

"Well if this goes pear-shaped it won't fall on our heads, so he'd best mind his Ps and Qs."

"Sir?"

"You said it yourself. He hires hooligans from a man that was a spy and his letters are in code. Add that to the fact that a rumor runs about that, that wazzock American Ambassador got involved with him, and it sounds like we have an enemy agent embedded in our rear. So if he does not do as I say, when I say, he will bloody well be shot. Understood?"

Once the captain nodded, the general snapped. "Good. Now, let us find this puffed-up popinjay."

The car stopped outside a large field on the outskirts of the hamlet. Both the general and captain passed rows of wounded men on the battlefront side of the grounds going into one tent, and a longer line of pregnant women and babies entering a second, larger tent nearer the town. "I suspect the doctor will be with the women sir. The whole reason he operates here was first to help all the refugees. He is particular in that he only wishes to aid children, and he also looks after the women of the area and the whores that service the men."

The general grunted then called over two soldiers who looked like they'd finished their treatment and were getting suited and booted to return to the line. "Follow us." The men obeyed, and after a few quick questions, they found Stewarts examining a baby girl.

"She looks much better then last time. I can tell you've been giving her the formula I gave you," Stewarts said in perfect French.

A woman so thin her ribs showed replied, and bowed. Then she rushed forward and hugged the man, who looked thinner then he had when he'd first asked for permission to care for refugees. He still possessed the boyish face, but it was now marred by a jagged scar that zigzagged from his left cheekbone and pull lips into a perpetual frown. The black hair was no longer curly had been cut close to the scalp, while becoming liberally streaked with gray.

"Mr. Stewarts, you will come with us now."

"Can't. I'm in the middle of an examination.  You will wait, and if you can't do that, you will be thrown out," Stewarts retorted without deigning to look at the interlopers who'd interrupted him. Then, still with his back turned he said, "You're General Ashmore, and I'm more than a little sure you've come here to find out how I know so much. So, don't bother speaking, just listen. The short answer is I know because I take my oath seriously, so I treat everyone. Your side. Their side. Everyone.  As I'm sure you just heard, I speak French. But I also speak German, Chinese, Spanish, and I'm trying my hand at Russian, but to be honest that is not going well. But that means I understand practically everyone that comes through my tents and when I work up at the army clearing stations. I must add it's amazing what you learn when people assume you don't speak their language, and since I understand so much I'm able to piece out in great detail the whys and wherefores and plans on the other side of no man's land."
​
"You're under arrest," Ashmore boomed, but Stewarts plowed on.

"Now, during one of my mandatory rotations, who should visit but your commanding officer, Douglas Haig. I admit I am not a fan of his tactics, but we got on well enough and I convinced him not only was I not a spy, but I helped to settle an issue he was having with the local brothel. And before you ask, it was not that kind of issue. But in doing so I had to introduce him to my backer, George F. Baker Jr., who is an American banker that was checking up on me. I won't bore you with the details, but we're old acquaintances; met when I assisted his wife with a difficult last minute labor when she couldn't reach her normal doctor. Saved her life in fact. As you might imagine, that made him feel indebted to me. Consequently, in return for my help that night he has been helping me take care of others who find themselves turned out of their homes with nowhere to go. That is who I write to, and it is in code, as I don't like anyone reading my mail. Particularly those who try and rob me at gunpoint."

"Now see here,"  Ashmore thundered, motioning to the troops, who all chambered a round in their rifles.

"No. You see that letter on the table. The one from BEF headquarters. Read it."

Ashmore looked, and on a nearby table was a letter the did indeed appeared to be from BEF headquarters. Gritting his teeth General Ashmore snatched up the letter and read. When he finished the letter he stuffed it into his jacket and snarled, "Captain Roberts, these troopers are to stay with you, and this man is detained. He may continue to work for the rest of the day but may not leave. I am going to headquarters. I need to verify the authenticity of this document."

"Sir?"

"You have your order." Without waiting the General marched out of the tent and drove off.

"Charming," Stewarts drawled before moving to another little girl. "Hello sweetie. How are you?"

"Are you in trouble?" the girl asked?"

"You always get in trouble if you follow your conscience. Doesn't mean you shouldn't follow it though. It's how peace is won." The girl's eyes widened as she silently nodded.

Hours later Stewarts was sitting in dirty clothes picking at a plate of food. The two soldiers and Captain Roberts were with him. All four stood as a car pulled up. A few moments later Ashmore entered the tent. "You two, dismissed," he said and waited as they hurried out. After a pregnant pause the general spat, "Your story checked out."

Stewarts smiled. "Satisfied?"

"You're detestable."

"That's a no, I take it." 

Carter Caldwell pulled his knit hat, which had the Weather Chanel logo emblazoned on it, further down his head, and then he flexed his fingers inside his thick gloves.  The icy wind, fresh off Lake Huron and Lake St. Clair, blew at a steady twenty-five miles an hour, freezing anything in its path, and kept most of Detroit's people in the warmth of their homes or a movie theater.  Carter stamped his feet, trying to warm up, while his cameraman, Lance did the same.  They had been on-sight for just under an hour, and already both of them were ready to find more substantial shelter than the open bus stop on the edge of the park, but with the fourth snow storm of the season approaching, and a lead as to their quarry, they didn't dare move.

"You sure she is going to come out here, man?  I mean, I know people say she performs no matter what, but I'm freezing my balls off out here, and I've got on three layers.  They say she dances in just a T-shirt and jeans, and nobody in their right mind comes out just wearing that."

"She'll come.  She hasn't missed a single storm in a year and a half, so the cold won't deter her." 

"Maybe.  But I wish she'd hurry the hell up," Lance said. 

"Just shut up and pay attention," Cater said, and he turned back to look at the Edison Memorial Fountain, which had been drained for repairs. 

"Fine," Lance grumbled, stamping his feet again, while looking at the warm lights spilling out of the buildings lining W. Adams Street.   

On the other side of the park, the "she" in question was waiting inside her car, with the driver side window cracked to let out some of the fumes.  Maxine Taylor looked at the clock in her dashboard, which read12:24 AM. Next she checked that the two balls of steel wool that she had soaked in paraffin oil were tightly hooked into the three and a half foot long ropes. Once Maxine was satisfied that everything was in order, she turned to look at the clouds and waited.  The storm was supposed to dump anywhere from 8 - 12 inches of snow on the city, and she wanted to be ready.  She'd picked this park because she was sure there would be someone who would see her dance, even at this time of night and in this weather, but also because it was big enough that she could see people coming, and could get away before anyone got too close.

Maxine could not say what drove her to dance per se, but she loved the idea that she was like a ballerina in a snow-globe.  But no sooner had the thought blazed across the neurons in her brain, than she wondered if she was being egotistical and selfish.  It was hard to say.  She had danced in this park a few times before; although, it was always at different times and only ever after dark.  She liked the idea of being seen, but not seen; although, she thought ruefully, tonight would be more of a spectacle then when she used her LED poi. 

Outside the car, the first fat, wet snowflake fell, while overhead, towering clouds moved off the lakes.  Ten minutes went by.  Then twenty, and now the flakes were coming down in thick curtains, and the ground started to freeze enough for the snow to stick.  It was time.

Maxine got out of the car, her poi in one hand, and a jug of water in the other. She was dressed in jeans, a white T-shirt with a tank-top under a white outer shell, and--even though they were not the best things to dance in--sneakers.  She didn't have on any gloves or a hat, but that didn't matter.  She figured she would only be out in the snow for six minutes at the most; unbeknownst to her, two men saw her approach the fountain.

Carter slapped Lance's shoulder and pointed to the woman that was walking through the park.  She was dressed the right way, but the dead give away were the heavily weighted balls suspended off what looked like hemp ropes that she carried in her hands. Lance nodded and they both shrank back into the shadows of the bus stop so they wouldn't frighten the woman away. At the same time, Lance began training his camera on the fountain, trying to get the best shot possible. 

Maxine reached the fountain and looked around.  She thought she saw something off by the bus stop, but when she looked again, didn't spot anything. With a shrug, she quickly stripped off her outer shell and set it on the edge of the fountain along with the water jug.  The snow that struck her bare arms and shoulders seared her skin, while already her long, sandy hair and eye lashes were coated in flakes.  Quickly, she put her hands through the straps of the poi, extracted a lighter from her jeans, and after one or two attempts set one of the balls alight.  Tossing the lighter onto her shell, she knocked the two poi balls together until the second one caught.  Then she waited...she knew it wouldn't take long.

At the bus stop, Carter and Lance watched the woman light the poi but then instead of dancing, she just stood there, watching the snow fall.

"What's she doing?" Lance muttered?

"Don't know.  Maybe praying or something like that." "Maybe," Lance said as he zoomed in.  "But I kinda like the look see."

Carter agreed, but already there was something else stirring inside of him that had nothing to do with physical attraction, which was already clearly visible. Then it happened: the flames heated up enough that they started to eat into the steel wool, and with a hiss, a huge spark flew off one of the balls. This was followed by several more, then a troop, then a company, and finally a battalion of huge sparks.  However, as soon as the first of the sparks flared, the woman began swinging the cords of her poi, sending the flaming, sparking balls through the falling snow in luminous, orange arcs.

Maxine started to sway, and with a flick of her wrists, she sent the fiery balls whipping through the air.  At first she moved slowly and deliberately.  One arm would raise while another would lower, her body would spin, and inside her head the music played.  Her hips began to tilt and pivot, while slowly the sparks being emitted from the poi grew in size.  Over and around her head the flaming balls twirled, picking up speed, and now the arcs had grown so that tongues of fire hung in the icy air and shapes began to emerge.  At first it was a circle, and then within the circle a clover leaf appeared.  Suddenly Maxine spun and it looked like she was wrapped in rings of flames; she kept spinning and the poi began throwing sparks almost a hundred feet in every direction, like some kind of demonic sparkler.

Carter stood slack-jawed.  He had never before seen anything as frightful and beautiful all at the same time.  In the orange glow of the fire-trails he caught glimpses of the woman's face, and it was like nothing he'd ever seen before.  Her expression was almost vacant and glassy eyed, except that from somewhere far away, something else seemed to be shining through. It was a light that was far more subtle than the inferno of sparks coming off the poi, but it was all the more radiant for it, and the whole time the snow fell, creating a surreal wonderland.

Suddenly Lance hit Carter in the shoulder.  "Come on man.  Do some of that reporter crap.  This is what we are here for," the camera man hissed.

Maxine accelerated the poi balls rotation as fast as she could.  Up, down, around, her arms went, and as she danced it was as if she left her body and began to watch herself from above.

Lance knew he should be standing in front of the camera at that moment, commenting, but he couldn't.  Out of his peripheral vision he could see other people from the buildings across the street coming out in ones and twos to see what was happening. "Get a shot of the crowd," Carter said as he started walking towards the fountain, with Lance trailing.

Lance looked around quickly and said "There's no crowd.  Just a few wankers come to see what all the fuss is. Now come on and do your reporting so we can go get warm."

Carter whipped around and hissed, "Look, you've got some good shots, so just go.  I'll add a voice over track later," and even as he said it he was surprised to see how angry he look in the reflection of the lens.  It must have taken Lance off guard as well, as he stopped walking momentarily.

Getting his bearings again, Lance said, "Look.  I'm not trying to bust your balls, and I can see you fancy her.  Fine. But come on. We came here for a story, now let's get it."

For a moment, something in Carter rebelled against the idea of reporting on this.  He wanted to keep the moment to himself, but then, recognizing that Lance was not trying to start a fight with him, he took his mic out of his pocket and set himself up.

Maxine twirled and through the orange light of the fire that was all around her, she saw the reporter and his camera man.  For a moment, it looked like they were fighting, but then the reporter turned and held up his mic. She got a fleeting glimpse of him in that instant.  He was classically handsome and deserved to be on TV, she thought. Then just as one thought finished, a second flashed through her mind: I don't want to be on TV.  The realization shot down her spin and made her innards start squirming.  Then, like a car slamming into a street lamp, she stopped and threw the poi, as far as possible, away from herself while still keeping them inside the fountain.  They landed in an eruption of sparks, but Maxine rushed forward, grabbed the water jug, and dumped the contents onto the flaming balls.  As she did, she saw the reporter drop his mic and start running towards her, with the cameraman lumbering behind.

As soon as the jug of water was empty, Maxine rushed forward, grabbed the poi, and then leaped out of the fountain without a backwards glance.  The duo was right on her heels, but she dug into her jeans and pulled out her car keys. Reaching her car, Maxine opened the door opened and brought the engine roaring to life.  Gunning it, she took off faster than a jackrabbit hopped up on meth. 

"Why the hell she run?" Lance puffed as he and Carter looked at her tail lights. 

"Don't know. Maybe she didn't want to be on TV."

"That's stupid.  Everyone want to be on TV."

"Most people; she might be shy."

"What do you mean, shy?  She was sending sparks fifty feet into the air.  That's bound to attract attention.  Besides, why come out in public, and why always come to the same park?  Someone was bound to take an interest."

"Look.  I don't know, but you've got good footage, right?"

"I guess, but what good is it? We didn't get an interview. Hell, we don't even know who she is."

"I know," Carter said as he started walking towards the van with Lance.  But it's not a total bust.  You got one heck of a free show."

"I don't think you know what a bust this night is mate.  I'm half frozen, and got almost nothing usable out of it."

Carter sighed inwardly.  Lance was always a bit a killjoy while working, and he did not want to listen to him gripe for the next hour. So, almost without thinking, he said, "Look man, I know you're pissed. But for coming out with me, take this.  You've earned a little extra," Carter said pulling fourty dollars out of his pocket as they reached the van.  "Go get a drink or two on me.  I'll catch you tomorrow." 

"Sounds good to me.  But why don't you come get a pint with me?  You're just as cold as I am."

"No thanks. I think I'll go home and warm up with a scotch in bed."

"Suit yourself," Lance said, and then got into the van and drove off.

Carter watched him go, and then smiled.  The cameraman had been so busy making sure he didn't drop his camera that he failed to notice the woman had not picked up her coat.  Walking back to the fountain, Carter kept his fingers crossed.  The shell was still where Maxine had left it. Carter picked it up, looking for anything that might help him identify her.  Inside one of the pockets he found a case for business cards.  He opened it and found her name, phone number and email.  With a smile, he took out his cell and called.

Maxine's phone rang through the Bluetooth in her car.  She answered and a deep male voice that she didn't know said, "Hello, is this Maxine Taylor, the woman who was just fire-dancing in the Edison Memorial Fountain?

Maxine's hear skipped a beat, which she knew had nothing do with identified.  "It is.  You're the reporter aren't you?" She purred.

"I am.  I hope you don't mind that I called, but you left your coat on the fountain, and I found your cards in the pocket. Listen, I think I scared you back there.  But can I meet you, alone?  Buy you supper. I mean, what I saw tonight. It was fantastic. You're amazing, and I would love to find out more about you."

There was a long pause.  For Maxine, it was thrilling to know someone found her dancing as beautiful as she believed it was, and she basked in that warm glow. For Carter, it was simply a few moments of agony.  Then she said, "You know Duly’s Place?  It's a 24-hour diner."

"I know it."

"Good.  Be there in thirty minutes." The phone went dead, but the smoky allure of Maxine's voice acted like a lighthouse, guiding Carter to unfamiliar shores that held the promise of something both unknown and life altering. It was irresistible and set Carter’s mind ablaze with possibilities.  Looking up, he silently thanked the falling snow and then set out for shores unknown.