Adlaid Dunlop was at chores when the soldiers came. That time of morning was the pigs, feeding them and cleaning the pens. With her arms and nose straining at a couple of overripe slop pails, she turned her head toward the road for a sniff of fresh air and espied the greycoats marching into her mountain village of Fifty Lashings, gunmetal swaying at their shoulders.

She ran into the house. “Mama, soldiers headed this way. Where’s Daddy?”

“He and Willy went to help switch the point on the Ralliths’ plow. Supposed to be back for supper.”

“You think they’re looking for war refusers?” asked Adlaid.

“Most likely, if they’re seeking anything besides our food. Henry!” her mother called to Adlaid’s nine-year-old brother, “Fetch some wood for the stove.” Her mother chopped some potatoes for the pot. “Maybe they’ll leave the rest alone and move on.”

But upon their arrival, the soldiers moved across the farmstead taking inventory of stores, animals, and people. Finished that, they crowded into the sitting room on the first floor of the Dunlop home, leaving their rifles propped against the plank walls.

“We’ll need our one part of ten,” said the lieutenant, a young man with cloudy gray eyes. He handed Adlaid’s mother a sheaf of scrip, useless for buying anything outside the cities. “The trip through the mountains depleted us, so thank you for your service to your country. Speaking of which, you told my sergeant you haven’t seen your husband in how long?”

“Since strawberry season,” said her mother. “He fixes tools and travels round. Never came home. We’ve been on our own since and now getting ready for winter. Might as well be a widow.” Her mother produced a tear, which Adlaid found a bit overwrought.

The lieutenant said, “Your mountain men play at war dodging and have no fellowship with their countrymen. I’m not one for wrath though. If Mr. Dunlop were to appear, we’d just induct him and move on.”

Her mother nodded. “I sure wish that fickle man did love his country.”

Adlaid rolled her eyes, just slightly.

“We stay overlong, and you might find these men eating into your winter stores.” Then, lower, the lieutenant added, “And maybe finding things they shouldn’t. That what doesn’t belong here.” Her mother’s eyes widened, but she remained silent and looked after the stewpot.

Adlaid’s mother served cider to the soldiers in their own tin cups. Her little brother Henry watched wide-eyed, hanging close to his mother except to fetch and refill cups. Adlaid had imagined soldiers joking, laughing, maybe telling dirty tales when women weren’t around, but hardly a word passed these men’s lips. Each sipped his cider, stiff-backed, gazes cast at the floor. A grey-haired corporal with an empty cup snapped his fingers at Henry or attempted so; the sound was more fingertips rubbing. Adlaid grabbed the pitcher from the boy’s trembling hand, filled the cup, and pushed it back at the corporal. A slosh hit his cuff, drawing a scowl, but Adlaid turned her back and walked to the door.

She put on her overcoat and work boots. The corporal followed, too closely and said, “Where you going, girl?”

Adlaid’s mother’s hands fluttered toward her chest. The sergeant cleared his throat. The corporal looked at the floorboards and shuffled aside. The lieutenant looked up and asked Adlaid, “So where are you off to?”

“I got to feed the pigs we still have,” said Adlaid. After a moment, she added, “and the ones you took will be hungry, too.”

The lieutenant turned a faint smile. “Considerate of you.” He gestured at the door. “Don’t take a chill. If you happen to find your daddy, tell him to come on in. The war wants fighting, even from mountain men who want to hide from it.” He turned to Adlaid’s mother, a grin pulling lips from teeth, “I’m afraid I forgot to tell you that this cider is splendid. You make it with apples from that orchard I saw coming up the road?”

Her mother issued some terse but polite answer as Adlaid opened the door. A step over the threshold, Adlaid slipped a hand into her coat pocket, and her fingers came to rest against a coin, an iron viaticum her mother had given her the year she’d first bled. She’d retrieved it earlier from behind a wallboard in her room just before the sergeant had knocked at the door. The viaticum had been long ago blackened with a mixture of beeswax and linseed oil to protect it from rust. According to her mother, all viatica coins had crossed the oceans on the ships that had borne all their Yaghda race to this country, clenched in the fists of Yaghda women in the hold. From the coin flowed memories of Dunlop homelife: flour-caked pieces of chicken, crackling and adance in the fry-pot; her daddy’s cheek, rasping against hers as he tucked her in; stripes of fire across her backside and her eyes stinging with salt tears, but her face sticky and sweet with an apple pie ill-gotten.

Adlaid pushed her mind free of the iron’s reverie, and turned back once toward her mother’s sitting room, toward unspeaking men and unwashed bodies in a closed space. She stepped outside and pulled tight the door.