L'esprit Oculaire

This is a 500 word story I wrote, featured in the anthology 'A selection of work by the students at the Priory Academy LSST', on the theme of 'Art'. Picture here: http://goo.gl/mw1ILF

Reinette didn’t believe in abstract things. By its very definition, ‘abstract’ was silly; strange, metaphysical ideas beyond the human realm of understanding. No rules, no constraints, no boundaries. Not a single sensible feature. No, Reinette was firmly rooted in here and now. What’s real is real, and nothing’s ‘more real’ than anything else. Besides, philosophy had no place in the middle of a war.

The alpine road was long and tricksy, weaving its way through the south Gallic hills, twisting and twirling with false starts and misleading slopes, but the wisps of black smoke spilling into the early August sky was a beacon to Reinette. Thankful for small mercies, she rounded last corner before her objective, and saw the wrecked convoy. Fires and embers still littered its squat form, clinging on from its destruction roughly twelve hours prior; their crackles and creaks echoed around the slopes, giving the impression that the cars and trucks were letting out a last pathetic death-groan.

At Reinette’s feet lay the body of a young man in a green uniform. Upon his helmet was a skull, and wrapped around his upper arm sat a red band, displaying the symbol behind which he rallied. Though there were no burns or obvious injuries on his skin and clothes, his limbs were arranged in such a way that could only be described as…well, abstract. Pulling her silk scarf over her mouth, and here beret down over her eyes, she pushed through the black plumage.

In the middle of the scrap-metal ring lay a small Volkswagen van. Bruised and stranded on its side, its engine still purring and its exhaust still spluttering. A detachment of the SS Honour Guard was to going to move a special delivery into Switzerland, to keep it from the allies. The village resistance sent the message north, and the allies sent a plane south, to bomb the convoy.

“A damn good hit, at that,” she muttered to herself.

She was by the back doors of the van now; they were slightly ajar. Slowly, she slipped her fingers between the opening, carefully pulled downwards, holding her breath to see…

Paintings. Nothing more than paintings. Several Dutch masters, by the looks of it, all spewed across a tarpaulin " windows into an abstract world. Reinette let out a breath of relief, but then took one of reservation; at least it wasn’t some new and terrible doomsday device, but why on earth would the German’s go to such length to protect a few framed pictures? In material terms, they were practically worthless, and even less so in war time. What possible delusion would lead these people to give their lives for oil on canvas? That was the danger of dabbling in the abstract, she supposed. Philosophy and war is like oil and water.

A noise. A light tapping. Reinette span quickly, bracing herself to find a strangling captain emerging from a wrecked truck. And yet there was nothing except the gold touch of sun. Wearily, she glanced back at the paintings " one in particular caught her eye. There seemed to be a sort of...gap…within the composition of the artwork, as if the subject had simply…

Left.

She banished these thoughts from her head; they had no right to be there. “Philosophy,” she told herself again and again as she left the scene, “has no place in war.”