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Goodbye, Iris.

Love.

What do we know of love?

We know a baby loves with all its tiny heart

and is loved in return

by hearts as simple and as pure.

We know a growing child thrives on love

and with its generous limbs apportions that love

to the rest of the world.

We know that youth drenches itself

with perfume of its love,

a wild, heedless love bordering on heroism.

And the wise love placidly and deeply.

One is said to love a place,

a thing,

an idea.

You love your country and your liberty.

And of course,

there is the greatest love of all:

That of a gentle soul in thoughtful prayer

to God.

Then there is pride or self-love,

a malignant vanity.

Insatiable,

the pride of the Teuton.

Why must such a belligerent urge

ravage all that is lovely and right?

One must forgive,

but a crime against humanity

is a crime against God.

One must have the discipline to fight for what is right

in the Lord's eyes.

We must restore peace to His earthly garden.

For the love

of God.

Apoplexy, apoplexy!

Geza!

The boy has had a stroke!

We... we have to let some blood.

Horse brushes.

Horse brushes!

Thank you, Lieutenant.

He may have worms.

Have you tried feeding him a little horse hair?

Won't the hair turn to eels in his stomach?

I hardly think so.

Here.

A few on your neck will keep goiter away, too.

And I might add,

the breath of a mare with foal on your little baby

would clear up that whooping cough.

Where is your horse, Lieutenant?

Oh, she'll... she'll be coming along.

It was my father's leg.

I think she wants you to have it.

An almost-perfect fit.

I knew I'd need you again someday.

Iris.

Darling.

There's a dead sparrow on your roof.

A good omen for our marriage.

You've been wounded.

What do you mean?

Why do you torture me with your presence?

My best man wishes the next dance with you.

Excuse me.

My name is Dr. O'Abbey.

We have never met.

My patient here claims he is your husband.

Is this true?

It's very true.

Are you Veronkha Petrovich Alekskaya?

Yes.

Then you are the one to whom my patient claims to be married,

a claim supported, I would think,

by this marriage certificate.

Why, that's a treasure map.

As his wife, you should know that Captain Philbin

is not as well as he seems.

The young man is freighted with immense psychic history

going back to his early childhood.

He was suddenly weaned by his mother,

who painted with bootblack upon her breast

the face of a fearsome monster.

The treatment worked so well

that Baby Philbin forgot not only the breast

but his mother as well.

As the lad grew,

forgetfulness was the very tenor

of his existence...

forgetting the kindnesses owing to God's creatures,

forgetting often the respect due to one's elders,

and forgetting the little things

that would have made life so much easier

for his forgotten mother.

His romances have also been enacted

under the dominion of this forgetfulness.

No sooner did he pledge eternal love

then he would no longer even remember

the woman in question...

and there were many, many women,

as you know, Veronkha.

And then, he met you,

and you would not let him forget you, Veronkha.

With what instrument

you wafted away the mists of his reckoning,

I know not.

But soon, you were wed in Archangel.

The happiest day of his vague life

and perhaps yours.

Head size: Normal.

No evidence of urningism in family.

Then, just as suddenly,

blackness and fog descended on your wedding night.

My patient has no recollection of anything

since the ceremony.

Messr. Philbin remembers nothing of the past year.

To him, it is still and always will be

his wedding night.

Won't you help your beloved back?

One report has it

that he was overcome by the Hun's mustard

while rescuing a priest's daughter from a barn.

Severe mustard apoplexia.

Who is this man?

He knows of no betrayal.

Darling.

My heart leaps at the sight of you.

He is not my true love.

Goodbye, my Juno!

What are you looking for?

The urn.

The urn? What urn?

Her dying request was that I consecrate her ashes

in the White Sea.

Whose dying request?

Iris.

The woman who was just here.

Where are the ashes?

That woman was Veronkha.

She has been Veronkha for a long time now.

A private in the Tsar's Imperial Army.

She is very brave.

I'm sure you're mistaken.

Her name is Iris.

But what about the urn?

You said your Iris is dead;

This woman is alive.

Then I am saved.

She is not dead after all.

This is Veronkha.

You can see her for yourself at the illumination tonight.

Then tonight, I must look like a prince.

Geza! What are you taking?

Get into your buckles.

Isn't it the man's place

to discipline a wayward child?

Please continue, Mother.

I'm not used to seeing a woman doing a man's job.

Would you mind?

Geza!

He's a good lad.

You should be proud of him.

The Battle of Wittenberg.

These dauntless warriors of Mother Russia

reaping a deadly harvest on the field of honor.

In the Battle of Bessarabia,

terrible was the havoc these soldiers wreaked

on the Hunnish foe.

I'm sorry.

I refuse to portray a German.

A volunteer!

We need another blond beast.

Thank you.

And, now, with your patience,

we will recreate the splendid assault

of the Archangel fusiliers at.

The Archangel fusiliers.

Courageous in long moustaches,

injured earlier in the war,

too elderly for other detachments,

they have come from far afield:

From the Congo, from Greece,

from jeweled lands,

from the infirm.

All have risen to defend Mother Russia

from the godless Bolsheviks

and from that enemy of Christendom

and civilization, Kaiser Wilhelm II.

Turbine, fez, and cappy,

in the land of valor...

Murmansk.

...the Battle of Lafferty.

May we please have the Royal Scots dragoon,

the French reconnaissance, and American fusilier?

We'll bait the Huns with our guns,

then watch the kaiser roll.

Veronkha is Veronkha.

A nightmare to Germany were we at Galicia.

We'll bait the Huns with our guns

and watch the kaiser roll.

Small nations. Small nations, please.

Greece, the Congo, Dominion of Canada.

Can anything sink the bloodlust

of these barbaric chieftan?

Come to Murmansk.

Ten, nine, eight, seven,

six, five, four,

three, two, one.

Illuminate.

Do you recognize me?

Yes, from Danchuk's.

You've been away.

Who told you that?

I mean here.

Why did you leave me?

I didn't think you'd notice.

We all kissed you while you were sleeping.

You were very sweet.

Iris?

No.

You know who I am.

I know who you are.

Where do you live?

You will find me again,

and maybe you'll find your Iris.

You're limping.

Have you hurt your foot?

Yes, but it'll be all right.

Don't bother, all right, I'll get dressed.

Sounds like a little hate is going on.

How far is it to the front?

An hour's march, sir.

Another dogpile.

If nothing happens to us, we'll be back in a few hours.

Nothing will happen.

On the march to the front,

Danchuk imparts to Lieutenant Boles

her beliefs about darkness.

She believes that darkness can be kept,

a blackjuicy harvest

actually plucked from the night.

But darkness can be sculpted into huge, furry vaults

and complex corridors.

That little piles of darkness

can serve as useful road signs for the weary traveler...

or for anyone

who swims in that dusky fluid.

Sometimes, the deeper shades are cramping,

and one has to duck down low to squeeze beneath them.

One can always wind one's way

through the night.

Poor soul.

Death has a grim-looking face.

Sleep, brother.

Sleep forever.

From this distance, she looks like a ghost.

Perhaps she is the ghost of Iris.

I've heard of ghosts.

Good ghosts who wander the battlefields at night,

guiding soldiers out of danger.

You can see their omens everywhere,

omens warning of stray bullets

and lurking enemies.

If I was such a ghost...

I would stay so close to you,

you could feel my breath on your cheek.

Where am I?

Where does Veronkha live?

No one knows.

She gave me this treasure map.

It makes no sense to me.

Julia...

I was worried about you.

No need.

I'd nearly forgotten about you.

Then I'll have to follow her home.

How do we know she's fully hypnotized?

Let me ask her a question.

What is the worst thing that you have ever done?

I made my baby brother blind in one eye

and said it was an accident.

I think she's ready.

Lieutenant Philbin is your husband.

No, he's not.

She's resisting.

Tell her again.

You're at a wedding.

Your own wedding.

Who do you see next to you?

I want you to tell me,

who do you see next to you?

Yes, Philbin.

And, now, what happens?

We go to the aerodrome and fly in Philbin's plane

over a terrain bristling with Hun spikes

to Murmansk for our honeymoon

at the famed Murmansk Hotel.

Everything was very exciting.

A Bolshevik carried our bag.

But I didn't care.

I was very nervous

as I'm sure the other brides had been earlier that week.

Philbin had to freshen up and withdrew to the stables

with some old revolutionist friends.

I was afraid they'd start talking

about old girlfriends.

He was gone a very long time.

I was worried...

and set out to find these stables.

A chambermaid.

I shouldn't have, but I let him

back into the bridal suite to explain.

Then I had the marriage annulled.

But to Philbin,

this desk clerk does not even exist.

He has no memory of her.

There has been no infidelity.

But the thoughts that made her exist,

exist, exist in his mind...

- Do you recognize me? - Should I?

I'm the one that struck you in the head

with a rifle butt the other night.

Really?

I think I would've remembered that.

You're no more an amnesiac than I am.

You're an imposter!

I'd love to hear you out, soldier,

but I'm in rather a hurry.

I seem to have mislaid my wife,

but as soon as I find her,

we're leaving on our honeymoon.

And what about a baby I've heard of?

Do you have a child?

A baby!

They're coming!

Are you sure that there is no name that you have forgotten?

Baby Boles...

Your daddy's come back, little one.

You see,

I haven't forgotten you.

Geza,

you smell like Iris!

Iris...

Iris...

If you love me,

you will find me.

Here are your maps.

Thwarted in his treasure hunt,

Boles returns to more soldierly duties.

Yanis perfects his gouty foot

and convinces everyone he should rather

stay home in his pajamas.

Geza, make sure

to protect Baba from the Bolsheviks.

What do Bolsheviks look like?

Oh, they're terrible creatures.

Half man, half beast.

They've great big eyes,

great big ears,

and great big claws.

I will be back...

bearing my shield,

or borne upon my shield.

Where there was war,

there was her home.

What do Bolsheviks look like?

Oh, they're terrible creatures.

Half man, half beast.

They've great big eyes,

great big ears,

and great big claws.

Huns!

Your face is so bloody!

I hadn't noticed.

I feel so alive!

I love you.

I thought you'd forgotten me.

I looked for you everywhere.

Not everywhere,

else you'd have found me.

Every time I kill someone in battle, I try

to think of them as a rival for your affection.

You're a good fighter, Lieutenant Boles.

What if I were to call you...

Iris?

Call me anything you like.

[marching feet.

What a mess.

You saved my life!

That's nice.

Your father said he'd drive me to the aerodrome,

have you seen him?

He's dead.

I can see that.

Nothing seems to be going right today.

My father died a coward,

didn't he?

I believe there's a reason for everything.

For instance,

someone shaved off my mustache while I slept last night.

What could that mean?

Have you heard, we've recaptured Murmansk?

Doctor, I've changed my mind,

I might have been killed today without ever

having loved my husband.

So, you've accepted your marriage?

I must be with him tonight...

in Murmansk.

We have the barracks, darling.

Where's the help around here?

Shall we go back and get them?

I'll get them.

Why don't you let me?

Don't be silly, do you think I'm not coming back?

Something might happen.

Nothing will happen.

I don't love you.

I love someone else.

Someone else?

Yes.

More than I ever loved you.

It's Lieutenant Boles, do you remember him?

He struck that hateful head of yours

and drew blood.

But not enough.

You're still alive.

You say my name is Iris.

Concentrate, and it will all come back to you.

We are in Russia,

fighting for the czar.

We are to be married soon.

You had a baby out of wedlock.

My baby.

And I've wept countless nights

for dishonoring you.

We each bare many scars.

You received this scar

when you were three.

A tureen of boiling soup spilled on you.

Your leg scar comes from a keg of roofing nails.

Do you remember these three sword wounds on my chest?

Two of them from duels.

One from a dead Hun.

Say goodbye to the sleigh,

say hello to my home.

Our home.

So that's what you say.

Our baby.

Olia!

Congratulate me, everything's fixed!

We just buried a coward.

She is Iris.

Iris?

Where is she?

Where's she gone?

Maybe she went home.

Home?

Of course!

The map!

Iris, Iris, Iris.

I didn't mean to fall in love with you.

It's strange, you know.

I can remember nothing except our happiness.

Yes.

My life began when I met you.

My husband.

What have you done?

You've made me a prisoner!

Please, Iris, let me explain.

If you ever touch me again,

I'll kill you!

She's finally gone.

Forever.

Yes.

There's just the two of us now.

Yes?

I want to know...

this is a lot to ask...

if anything happens to me,

would you look after my baby?

How sweet...

to die for ones country.

Never.

Never!

I alone against all of you.

Good ghosts who wander the battlefield at night,

guiding soldiers out of danger.

You can see their omens everywhere,

omens warning of stray bullets

and lurking enemies.

My name is John Boles.

I'm an archangel,

fighting a war.

I'm trying to find the woman I love.

Iris!