Brigadier Holland liked to scream. It was a manly thing. His medals would raise their heads to the golden sun, his neck would throb and burn red, his tongue would snap like a guillotine and his eyes would hop in and out of sanity. Shouting towards recruits was an unique religious experience and Edward Holland knew all about faith - he had read the bible once. It was essentially a matter of volume.

That morning, the army base at Drumshire was deserted - even the smell of gunpowder had left the air. Its large open square had no movable shadows, except that of the mountainous brigadier. Undisturbed by the complete silence, the old warrior marched to his usual spot. He stood upright, held his breath and his face refused to twitch. Edward Holland was an excellent swimmer, he had fell into the English Channel once. Within a minute, the freezing moment of that memory drowned his self-control and so Holland began to howl like a rabid dog of war. This strange sound conquered the empty square, met an even stranger echo and came back to find Edward laughing.

The brigadier had a peculiar chuckle and snort with which he greeted any impossible situation. The army base remained solid and hollow. Holland cleared his throat and proceeded with his regular morning lecture. As usual, this daily address lacked any intelligible content and, in this occasion, it would not reach a single soldier - but the brigadier was beyond such small concerns. The weather was fine for a good yell and his voice aimed for the clouds. He spoke of grenade-vowels and missile-consonants, expressing his belief that, through the diligent use of strong oral communication, anyone could grow taller than the average elephant (Edward Holland liked animals, but knew very little about them). The brigadier's daily display of vocal conviction usually lasted for half-an-hour, but this one went on and on for at least forty-five minutes and only then did he realize that an otherworldly echo was furiously talking back to him, something which had never happened before.

When Eddy was a dear little child, his mother was young, noble and sick. She spent most of her pale silky days laying on a gigantic bed, whispering sonnets and falling asleep. Every afternoon, Eddy ran home from school and she saved her strength in order to welcome him with a hug and a kiss. Then he would sing - for, in those peaceful times, Eddy was a choir boy whose pitch was light as an angel's feather - and the only song he knew was called «Holly Be Thy Lord's Son's Mother» and he clearly did not understand a word of it, but she loved every crystal not that came out of him. Then, one Spring morning, Edward was no longer a child and his mother was no longer sick. She was dead. Princess Claire Holland was still on her bed surrounded with flowers, but she would not acknowledge him. Edward still tried to sing «Holy Be Thy Mother Mother Mother», but he could not remember those life-giving crystal notes. He never sang again.

Now, with growing desperation, the brigadier shouted back and forth, refusing to leave any echoing mockery unanswered. In the back of his mind, he still fought against that very same motherly silence. Holland's head throbbed, but so did the army base around him. It seemed that the walls of each building were banging against each other. Even the ground dwelled on the memory of German bombs and English boots - and it shook with constrained emotion. The brigadier stomped and marched in tighter and tighter circles, losing himself in a most destructive rant.

When Edward was no longer a boy, he learned how to approach his father and ask him for money. Ferdinand Holland was a wealthy gentleman who entertained an healthy interest in politics, birdwatching and high-grade explosives. He sometimes attended parties wearing his green hunting hat while looking for a place to park his bicycle. The first time Eddy had problems in school, Ferdinand gave him a warm beating and the boy took it without a whimper. The second time young Edward was a cause for embarrassment, he suffered another belt-lashing, but this time he screamed and noticeably had lost his angelic voice. The third time he a faltered in his studies, Edward was already sixteen and so his father said this to him: "My little Eddy, how you have grown! Indeed, how was this possible? You are dull, sad and not in any imaginative way. Although your bearing is that of a pigeon, you look like a drunken pig. I will not have you soiling the Holland name anymore. Tomorrow, I will take you to meet Colonel Fudge and you will begin a career in the army as soon as possible. The nation needs bulky do-gooders such as yourself and I am done wasting my time with you. Off you go."

It had become rather difficult to recognize the existence of an army base at Drumshire. The brigadier was sure that he had been standing right in the middle of it, but now there was only an extensive landscape of fresh rubble. That strange echo was gone, but Holland was still rambling on, afraid of what would happen if he would stop yapping. He noticed something blocking the sunlight and heard a mechanical sound hovering down on him. The brigadier was not expecting anyone. The noise of an helicopter landing held the broken square together. A small figure jumped out of the proud machinery and approached Holland. The brigadier looked for his composure and saluted.

"Sir!"

"At ease, son."

The general took in the scene with a discreet smile of satisfaction. Edward recognized him as his father.

"Sir..."

"Marvelous what you have done with the place, brigadier. You certainly are a most intriguing weapon. Congratulations! The test was a moderate success."

"Test? Moderate?"

"Yes, unfortunately we suspect that this exercise has been fatal for you. The sound pressure building inside your skull will be exploding your head in about five seconds."

"I'm going to die?"

"In all likelihood."

"But why, father? Haven't I done everything you told me to?"

Then, with a sudden pop, it all went black.

Brigadier Holland did not like to sleep. It was a womanly thing. He quickly rose, opened the bedroom window and hugged his own head, happy to be alive. Maybe he would not shout towards recruits that morning - he would take the next train and go visit the cemetery. Edward Holland knew all about family, he had almost talked to his father once. It was not just a matter of volume.