Alder

Moved Below

Initially, he had found a deep admiration for the skills he had seen BriarRose administer to her young patient. This degree of tenderness he had not witnessed since his own mother had bandaged the results of his childhood indiscretions. It warmed his heart as did her smile. But as she plied her trade, an equally commanding emotion rose within. AS she brushed the lad’s skin, the carpenter felt an uncanny sensation of jealousy that he was baffled to explain. There was no bond between these two; neither the surgeon and youth, nor she and the carpenter. And yet, the demon covetousness reared his ragged head. Was it the healing art and it’s dominion over life itself that was so mesmerizing? Alder dismissed it as anything more. The carpenter reassessed. With BriarRose’s revelation, the patient ostensible benign, his protectiveness was unwarranted and his presence grew to be awkward. He bowed with a degree of deference to his caregiver that went all but unnoticed as she resumed the task at hand. In seating the door behind him, the waif of his pungent hand jogged his thoughts back to the figurehead. He advanced his pace and trekked toward the dock.

narwhal

Delicate hands ferreted through the well organized chest of essentials. Placing tin above tin in a ritualistic sorting game that had oft been won and reset, the lass placed one and then another of the tiny hinged boxes aside. Turning, and consulting a library of jars, she considered and dipping her fingers into a squared vessel of viscous gel, she withdrew; to her satisfaction, a small measure, then more of translucent goop. Elbows flew as one and then another pinch of dried herb tumbled to the bottom of the mortar and were bound to one another with the twirling grind of her pestle. Able to just make out the teasing resonating from the adjacent room, a delightful smile overtook the maternal grin that curled one side of her lip more than the other. BriarRose shook her head at both their foolishness and her own as she felt another flush betraying her quieted emotions. Without a word, she swept into the room and edged close beside the carpenter, opening her folded package on the adjacent table. The mixture of emollient nestled in the waxed paper still held enough presence of crushed herb to reveal the source of its aroma. Its green scent married the sweetness of her own, forming a heady blend that compelled Preston to regain composure if not some jealousy at the redirected attention toward her new patient. Confidence reigned as BriarRose held out her hand to Alder requesting his own. Alder paused slightly before accepting the offer, seeking Pew’s council. His answer came in an affirming nodded of sincerity reflecting Preston’s genuine reverence toward the gifts of this artist. Still, recalling her furrowed brow as she had empathically reflected the discomfort of his work weary hand in hers prior, brought a self-consciousness to which he was unaccustomed. In the face of potential relief, he hesitated. Alder’s mind scrambled in the silence begging for conversation to seal voids that were becoming fast filled with distracting notions. Twice embarrassed, he averted his eyes. Impatient with the boyishness of the two, BriarRose would be still no more. She reached toward his lap and firmly took hold of the startled carpenters hand. Her other hand deftly seized her potion as she felt her patient untense and surrender. The tincture was warm with work as was her touch. Caring and compassion overrode a modicum of the awkwardness of the moment. Alder openly kicked at the chair leg of the now smirking Mister Pew.

Raising his head and lifting his cup in an understated toast, Alder cleared his throat and answered. . . “Nay…” Mister Pew” Alder mused at the understandably incongruous observation “Jus much relieved at your wellness, Sir n likeweise pleased at your well-deserved appointment” he added, concealing his nostalgic appraisal of the tender care Pew must have enjoyed. With each expression of kindness he witnessed, the surgeon’s arena was evermore removed from the hard, medicinal compound Alder had imagined. Quite the contrary, the delicious scents and scenery toyed perilously with his resistance to such ministrations as these. Still enjoying the warmth of the cup as it radiated deep into his palm, Alder subconsciously worked the muscled of his left hand slightly fanning his fingers, and then rolling them into a fist. Mayhaps, he pondered without outward query, these goddesses possessed a unguent that might ease the ache of his long hours of carving.

The bottle was passed in a joyous imbibing, abating further the subtle, ceremonious bonding of the crewmembers. Uncertain of whither or not to follow Captain Brand’s lead, Alder instead nodded in the affirmative to their hostess as she passed, teapot in hand. He had little resistance for the aroma swirling to his senses. Had the sweet vanilla that so captivated him wafted from cup or bosom, it made no difference. It was warm and welcome. Alder sipped the warmth and savored the feel and flavor as it cascaded. Raising his head as he inhaled, he became painfully aware that not only was his demonstration being closely observed by Miss Kildare, Pew was forced to restrain a good natured snicker. “Been a while, ‘az it lad? He whispered and added a nudge. “Aye…aye, Mister Pew” Alder replied in hushed but capricous laughter back at his teasing assailant, “your caretaker works magic on many a level.” Their attentions returned to the forum at hand as the Captain alluded to the figurehead. With the Captain’s praise, the wax was set, and his loyalty sealed. Alder promptly rose as Captain Lasseter stood and knuckled his forelock with particular attention as the captain took his leave. Alder sat down once again and sighed, much content with the fold that he had found himself a part of. Alder gazed deep into the bits of leaves as they settled in his cup and thanked his maker.

What on god’s green earth had possessed him to kiss her hand? His mind scrambled with the singular introduction. This reticent man, bent on formality and propriety, was now, inexplicably at a loss for words. True, Alder was grateful for her skills in the caretaking of his crewmate. Nevertheless, the overwhelming relief in her tone regarding the condition of Mister Pew, drew actions from the carpenter; that although inarguably forward, he could not find himself wholly repentant of. And for this, his senses were likewise preocupied. Moving past the door of Preston’s room, Alder was well pleased that vitality that had overcome his pallor and the laughter that reflected his good spirits. Spying Captain Lasseter and realizing he had encroached upon the captain’s visit, Alder felt especially awkward. “Excuse me, Sirs” he entreated “Mister Pew . . . I am delighted to learn you are well.” Alder exchanged and continued in knuckling his forelock “Captain” and awaited acknowledgement that he may bid a hasty retreat.

The captain’s praise rang as cathedral bells dawning a celebration of the ages. So echoed his words on the carpenter’s soul affirming his allegiance to ship and her master, and vowing his gifts to the claim of the cerulean draped goddess that would dance upon the waves. Alder nodded at Mister Thatcher, with a capricious grin that was mirrored by his crewmate. “Shall we?” Alder waved his arm wide in grand fashion toward the night and rewards yet to be experienced. “Grand idea, Mister Wenge” Robert chortled deeply “Tis a bonnie lass a callin, . . Ah ken hear er now…” he mused as he made swift pace past the carpenter. Exiting the storeroom, their paths were intersected by that of the clerk who paused leaving the two no egress. The men snarled in indignation awaiting the lad’s redirection. “Mister Wenge?” “Who Asks?” Robert replied, suspicious and aggravated. Likewise irritated by the insignificance his presence commanded, the inimical youth jabbed the man in the gut firmly with the package as he glared past toward the carpenter. “Tha lass wan’ed ye tah half it” he spat at the ungratefulness. Though unlike Robert to be intentionally rude, his protectiveness left Alder turning from the somewhat comical view of his doubled-over friend. Catching his breath, Robert held fast the solid package as the presenter ebbed to phantom in the alleys embrace. Random obscenities followed after him while chance questions flew through Alders mind as he unwrapped the text . . . and holding the item he looked deep into the night. This, this was the text he had hoped to read to and with Miss McDonough. The book fell open into Alder’s hands as Robert slowly righted himself. “The Flies and the Honey-Pot”, how poignant, he considered. A tale of delights so sweet, it entrapped the imprudent fly to its ultimate demise. Alder slammed tight the tome, deafening the voice of Aesop’s ghost. Mister Thatcher slapped the back of his silent comrade. “To the inn!” he urged, renewing the quest. “Aye, . . aye, Robert, I’ll meet ya there.” he spoke with no actual intent in word or tone. A moment of introspect awakened another social debt that begged his attention. Having no news of Mr. Pew and feeling derelict in not asking Captain Lasseter, Alder’s conscience twinged at an unthinkable fate and calculated the surest path to the chirurgeons. “Aye, Alder, so be it” Mister Thatcher understanding called, respecting his friend’s privacy, there paths diverged.

As they wound their way toward the recesses of the chandlery, Mr. Lasseter and the shadowed companion that followed, stepped unannounced into the lamplight. “Sir!” Alder leapt to attention upon realizing of the identity of the first intruder. The carpenter knuckled his forelock expressing his willing fealty and awaited acknowledgement, masking a sneer at the keeper and his lack of decorum. Reconsidering his status alongside that of the covert visitor, he quelled his disappointment with both the keeper and his own awkwardness. Captain Lasseter nodded in an amused, then formal acceptance as he observed the unsettled poise of the otherwise meticulous craftsman. The captain’s demeanor returned as he slowly circled the cloaked form and rubbed his hand across his chin. He scanned the balance of the wrapping and reached toward a familiar, though, haplessly tied knot that would be its undoing, paused and turned toward Mister Wenge. “May I” he requested of respect and not necessity. Alder nodded expressionless and swallowed hard in anticipation. Robert’s tongue could be still no longer. “More ‘n a bit o sweat n soul went inta tha sweet lass…” he tipped his head toward the art. The Captain turned from his task to acknowledge Robert, but spun back around, transfixed as the cloak met its languid rest upon the floor. His eyes; scintillate, not unlike the bliss of renewed acquaintance. Not a sound pierced the silence, no motion distracted his view. He drank in her beauty as her flowing gown drew his eye upward. “Ahhhh, yes” Captain Lasseter exhaled in satisfied voice, just above a whisper. His strong features had left no measure of speculating his approval until his gaze fell upon the outstretched hand that would guide and advance their journey. The seasonal rituals, abundance, regeneration and stability all embodied in as fine a representation as the Captain could have wanted. He turned and nodded his great approval as the wind’s whistle punctuated past a cracked pane. And in this song of the sea, Alder heard the voice of the Heron begging union with the embodiment of her constancy.

The coil of sisal nipped into the ruddy blister that complimented the collection of insults marring his skillful hand. He lifted the finger to his lips and nipped back at the pain restraining a curse of merit that measured the injury. Continuing, Alder bound the sculpture beneath the canvas with the remainder of the marginal cord as Robert pondered the eventual engineering of affixing this lass aboard the Heron's bow. The carpenter secured each section in preparation for travel, yet deftly masked well placed knots set to undo and not jam upon the likelihood of Captain Lasseter inspection. Pleased with his efforts despite the limited repertoire of knots at his command, Alder ushered Robert’s attention. “Tha Captain might be about any time, eh?” Alder offered as much query as statement. “Aye, that ‘e shud, Lad.” replied Robert equally anxious to indulge in drink and all manner of escape at the Inn, though action to this end was unforthcoming. “We shud wait on em.” “Aye” exhaled the land-weary carpenter; hopeful that amid the uncomfortable stillness of the floorboards, Captian Lasseter's seafaring presence would supervene. In the stale air of the chandlery, lanterns gradually exchange authority as wicks were allowed to rise and the veil of night began to fall.

Roll In Tha Hay

Elbows had bent and flexed the eve past as each man slake his thirst with potions that swam in degrees of medicinally intoxicating scents. Ameliorate their ills or augment their pleasures, hands raised dizzyingly to usher the barkeep dispatch another round. Self-absorbed souls languished in somber reflection. Others took notice of varied features, divining the character that might flow from the man by the preference that flowed from his tankard. The observer and the observed exchanged breath in the haze of the tavern. With only remnants of conversations to relay the news of their ships, Robert and Alder intermittently cocked an ear to the boisterous exchange. Mind calmed, save uncertain news of Mr. Pew, Alder’s glance became firmly tacked to the plaid skirts of a striking lass as she traipsed up the stairs. Robert’s elbow to his side, intended to inspire, had quite the contrary effect. Alder choked on his half swallowed rum, but smiled wholeheartedly at his friend as he elbowed him in reply. “Anuther lass awaits our return, lad” Robert uncharacteristically teased of the figurehead that had absorbed their spirits as well as their time. “Aye, she does at that Robert.” Alder mused at the animated nature of his friend and refocused his intent “Tha Captain will wan tah inspect ‘er afore she holds fast 'iz vessel.” Robert shared the bawdy remark in hushed laughter. The two could not restrain their exuberance, laughing out loud, they reveling at the suggestive wit and emptied their drinks in anticipation of departure. Coins danced silently as they spun on the table in the din of the crowd. Robert’s arm crooked over Alder’s shoulder the two staggered toward the chandlery to complete a focal and final ornamentation for the figurehead. There, amid an agglomeration of crates and trappings, as the sun rose high in the heavens and sweat burned the nights exuberance from their systems, the men toiled in anticipation of the Captain's arrival.

Christmas pageant

Murin was accurate in her assessment, Alder had been anxious to make his way back to the chandlery. His concern for Murin’s twisted ankle had not been resolved to his satisfaction and left him reflecting the fate of another woman whose life intersected his own. The tailor’s steadfast determination awakened him to the realization that there would be no second opportunity for salvation for this all too compassionate man. Murin was of her own mind as was his dearly beloved and she too he must let go. He had blamed himself all these years for her loss. Had he insisted more, cajoled her more relentlessly that she seek medical attention, she might be with him yet. As Alder trudged on, his troubled heart dictated Passion for any but the oaken heart and soul of the love he called “The Heron” would fade away even as the tapping of the rain that had long since lost his attention. Making his way through the dwindling drizzle, small ferrules of water careened off his oilskin. Ignorant of the climate of such a place, Alder wondered to himself, how long the inert storm would linger and if the transport of the carving would be impaired. He hoped it would not and estimated the work time brief once all necessities were assembled for the task. Arriving at last at the chandlery, Alder stood alongside and slapped the back of friend and shipmate Robert with whom he was well pleased. The carpenter grinned wide and nodded his overwhelming approval for the supplies that tumbled from Robert’s satchel. In their brief station, the sailors found their hardworking nature and attention to detail common ground for men with dissimilar origins. A friendship born of necessity was forged with the sharing of drink and anecdote. Robert led Alder to the corner of the storeroom where he had neatly propped the lumber he had requested to make the modifications to match the Captain’s demand. After some discussion, a meeting of the minds cemented the decision of which to use and the stage was set. Within hours, the ensuing rhythm of muscle and utensils had transformed the floor to a bed of aromatic wood chips and sawdust. Tools, an amalgam of vintage and contemporary, were offered as Alder coiled his frame around the sculpture. Alder cursed, in loud but mumbled breath, when the brittle steel of a favorite gouge gave way under the relentless confrontation of the mallet. Robert’s ear raised. The carpenter was quick to apologize for the offense. “Nay, Alder, ya’ve held that tongue far to still fer yer own goode.” Robert lent a jovial smile “a man needs ta give voice ta ‘is spurn now ‘n again.” “Aye” Alder smiled back, and sighed robustly at the loss. At this remarkable juncture, Alder felt he had at last found his place among the crew and he had earned equal standing. ‘Time to give our hands and tools a rest.” The carpenter added collecting the shards of steel, returning the canvas, errant tools to their place and the floor to it’s former state. He took one last look at the cloaked figure, satisfied with their progress he urged Robert toward a welcome respite in town. This draped lady would offer a face to his love. She would herald good fortune for all aboard and hold aloft a symbol of light and protection for Neptune and his minions to behold. The men turned heel and set forth into town.

With a turn, Alder cloaked the figurehead with its drape and made haste to the atelier window, concerned that a branch forced from its anchor by the storm might have careened the glass or worse. Peering out, he saw not a soul. His brow furrowed at the mystery. Prying deeper still, he glanced below the thick pine sill and made out measured, erratic motions ‘neath a bundle of emerald green fabric. Goode lord! He looked up wondering if the unrecognizable creature had haplessly plummeted from the roof. His ear perked with the utterance of mild profanity that rose with a familiar voice. Alder bolted from his place, rounded the storeroom with tremendous haste and found himself beside the disheveled tailor in the alley. Attempted to stand; embarrassed by the awkward encounter, she cringing as she put her weight on the turned ankle and began to topple back to the ground. Alder whisked down before either of them could consider proper etiquette in a matter such as this. His burly arm was spattered with excelsior that bit into his flesh as it enfolded her waist and steadied her stance. Lifting the hair out of her face and tumbling it over her shoulders she discovered her liberator. The awkward silence that followed was deafening.

The day was well underway; Alder and Robert had long since retired their hammocks, liberating additionally workspace. Robert set off into town seeking sustenance and the necessities essential to accomplish the Captain’s requests and make their stay ashore more comfortable. Robert proved not only wise but also an invaluable assistant. He outfit Alder with the flintlock pistol he advised be kept at the ready, and also offered an innate understanding of nautical engineering. He had most certainly secured shelter from the impending barrage of weather. Alder observed that the storeroom seemed suited to the climate even as the skies rumbled overhead. From the very hint of dawn, the carpenter had grasped each ray of light that streamed through long neglected panes of the chandlery; the storm would not best him now. He closed his eyes as powerful flashes pried past his eyelids. Alder endeavored to perceive the spirit in the carved timbers of this woodland goddess. He pictured her face in the shadows of his memory. Was this betrayal; to allow the likeness of his shipmate to supplant that of his beloved long lost to him? He shook the vision from his mind and opened his eyes. Alder looked down at the Captain’s directions upon the meticulously folded note in his hands. The carving, he would renew according to Dorian’s design. Her tresses he would deepen. A delectable shade of cinnamon, he imagined, though he would offer samples to the Captain from which to choose before the final call. Fashioned from his skill, she would be reborn of his touch. He smiled at the irony of a childless man bringing forth life. The request to transform her gesture and add an ornament; however, would pose more challenge. Alder considered not only the manner of attachment, but also the pairing of like wood limb to the original paring in both grain and density. The direction requested of the craftsman created a puzzle in wanting a lone piece; a pastiche in the making that would assume harmony. He pondered feverishly. Hardwoods of elm and oak posses properties to withstand relenting exposure and the buffeting of heavy seas. Either would do nicely. Alder planned a return to the stockyard to make his selection. Exploring the carving, the nature of her maker was revealed through each winding curve. Running his hand along the drape of her gown Alder’s sensitive touch discovered an unlikely imperfection. Tucked in the fold of the grain as it followed the fabric’s crease was a mark. Leaning in and over, a minute “C” with a blaze bolting from its center became recognizable. This was an unmistakable signature obvious to the fellow carpenter. Not as brazen as a painter or boastful as an author though a signature nonetheless. And surprisingly this mark was similar to his own; a large and small triangle stacked upon a still smaller triangle, resembling a tree. Three well placed strikes and it was set, smaller than a fingernail, just as this one. Alder drew a breath deep into his lungs and released a sigh. The reflective repose was suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock resonating through the window pane.

Finally reaching the shore, Robert and Alder had scavenged the last of the light to uncover their way to the chandlery. With note in hand stating authority and purpose, Alder introduced himself and his able companion to the wayworn chandler. The trite chandler led them deep into a storeroom toward a crate standing in the far corner of the room. Appreciating the bulge of coin filling the pouch the carpenter deliberately fumbled, the chandler presented a degree of deference superior to his traditional offerings. The chandler observed, surreptitiously wringing avaricious hands, as both visitors spied the room considering suitable area to labor on the figurehead. Alder, unfamiliar with such negotiation, expressed their need for board while they toiled. The chandler swung wide an adjacent door and entering, cast his arm wide boasting what the two seamen noted as surprising spaciousness. With raised brow, the vendor rubbed thumb and forefingers awaiting an offer. Tried by need and the tapping impatience of their host, Alder offered a sum, then snarled behind his teeth realizing the eager acceptance divulge his submission had exceeded convention. The carpenter was tight with his coin to be sure but even tighter with that of another man. He would make good on the difference. “And now my goode fellows, let us see what your note bade me transfer to you” slithered the velvet voice of the salesman chandler. About them, the warehouse burgeoned with every manner of tool and supply imaginable. Alder; though confident with the utensils he had packed, thought some here would extend his skill quite well. At last they paused before a paint-stained tarp draped over the sizable crate that might be easily managed by the two. Unlike typically bulky figureheads, even unseen, the craftsman could judge this sized carving would blend and not distract from the function of the agile Heron. Alder envisioned all manner of spirits that would dwell in the mysterious figurehead and craved the opportunity to draw them out. The chandler offered pry-bars, and having already received full payment from Captain Lasseter, left the men to their task. Robert and Alder gently applied leverage as each scaffold fell calmly away. Tumbling excelsior offered teasing hints to flesh and fabric. Like parting clouds, visions of blue peeked through. Alder knew this shade, cerulean his artist mother had called it when the lad Alder had dipped a curious finger onto her palette. Blue of protection, peace, calmness and spirituality, how very fitting for a ship’s guide and guardian, the carpenter reflected. As last of the crate away, Robert intuitively stepped back as his shipmate became engrossed in the action, losing time, space and even the presence of his companion. The figurehead still cloaked by a canvas shroud, Robert cleared his throat. Alder nodded silently to his companion as he took his leave. When stillness reclaimed the space, Alder sighed deeply; his fingers trembled involuntarily as a groom unveiling his treasure. The tan hand contrasted against the delicate bisque of her goddess skin. The pirate gleamed unearthing the ship’s treasure. The luminous glow of golden cords wrapped tightly the fabric that draped her torso below her exposed, ample breast. Her left, concealed by a well-placed and delicate hand. Cascading tendrils of amber blond framed a single shoulder strap and naked bosom. Both hand tenderly lifted the veil from her wistful face that gazed into the distance. Alder stepped back slowly smiling a half-cocked smile that drew a sun-wrinkled squint In their shared solitude, he unconsciously bowed in introduction. Raising his capricious grin, Alder could almost perceive the figurehead wink back at him.

Anxious to begin on a project he viewed of such magnitude, Alder had finished his work in double-time, increasing his pace at the expense of flesh and fatigue, but not of detail. Setting right his tools, he reported his accomplishment to Mister Warren who; noting such, delivered to Alder’s hand the document from Captain Lasseter. “Get yer gear tagether lad n we’ll see ya ta shore” the coxswain offered to the obviously distracted carpenter. Images of figureheads and carving strategies vied for attention with the directive from Mister Warren. Alder knuckled his forelock in respect to the Coxwain and took his leave to inspect the contents of the note and inventory his carving tools. Mister Warren looked on amused, uncertain if the preoccupied carpenter would walk square off the deck; much less find his way to the crated figurehead. Staggering thoughts and steps drew his path toward the trove of supplies he had ferreted aboard the Watch Dog. Alder sat aside his tool chest and glanced at the wax and impression that sealed Captain Lasseter’s note. His own name leapt from the leaf. Curious, in his excitement, he had not even notice the writing. It was unlike him to neglect such obvious detail, but there it was “Mister Alder Wenge, Carpenter.” A confirmation of self and stature emblazoned in ink and now in mind. Satisfaction flooded Alder’s expression as he resumed his study of the page. The Captain commanded a powerful script, with flourish enough to reflect good breeding, and clarity enough to fulfill its mission. Alder slipped two fingers ‘neath the overlay careful not to slash the page as he ceremoniously split the seal and absorbed the text that ensued. Satisfied with the missives directive, the carpenter rolled his knives, gouges and chisels into a tight bundle and tied them well. Any manner of tool he might need, he seized from his collection with the understanding that others may be acquired ashore. Aye, he would be leaving the Watch Dog and remain ashore until the task was completed. The carpenter paused to considered alliances, character and skill of fellow crew. Given the size of the task, Captain Lasseter left open the option to select a crewmember to accompany him ashore. After careful deliberation, Robert Thatcher’s name came to mind. If he could be spared, Robert would make an ideal candidate. Brawn would indeed be desired for this undertaking. Though not quite as tall as Alders six-foot frame, Robert had been challenged by the likes of sea and of Tawny and in both, Mister Thatcher proved the victor. Alder also admired the character of this man whom he had overheard proudly regaling an adage of his late father along with tales of the trade he imparted to his heir. In practice, Robert’s wielding of knives lay testimony to the gift of carving of leather and flesh alike. “Mister Thatcher” I’ve need of yer abilities for many a day ashore on ah task for Captain Lasseter, Would ya be willing ta join me?” entreated the carpenter. Robert smiled, delighted by the opportunity, though the two had not shared as many words “Aye, lad, I wod.” “Wanted tah be sure it’d be right with yea b’fore I cleared it w’ Mister Warren. Alder added. “Ave tah geht mah gear n. . .” he paused, then reflected in a flash “n. . .Mister Wenge, yall be needin’ ah pistol. . .” Thatcher’s continued, his voice trailing the body that had already sprung to action. Robert’s initiative affirmed Alders selection; he had not even considered the necessity of armament. Aye, alongside this able seafarer, the carpenter would learn a thing or two from his cohort even as he shared his trade. His gear strapped to his frame, Alder returned toward the Coxwain, but not before making rudimentary drawings of the Heron’s bowsprit, her rake and reference points. Measurements would follow, in good time. As daylight waned, Alder longed to lay eye and hand on the beauty that awaited him onshore, when the vision of another beauty came to mind. Since his return to Watch Dog and duty, the opportunity to unravel his misgivings with the tailor had not presented itself. He wondered if they would before ships assignments were to be made.

elixer

penetrating

Dance

pearl

Untouchable

yes . . .er I mean. . . sugar

Resurrecting his form from the pile of goods that had molded to his body, Alder rose from his concealed bedding in the alley and languidly stretched his body to length; making all too slight a shadow for his liking. He hurriedly trekked toward the Chirurgeon's; following the best of the fragmented directions he had overheard. Had Mr. Pew survived the night? he pondered. Alder had seen his mother stealthy creep past the dog run to the out quarters to comfort the ill, much to his father’s trepidation. Some servants had survived fevers that plagues and some had found eternal rest as she soothed body and soul with medicinals and melody. He admired the gift of life and the fairer sex that nurtured it, but respected also the costs. One chorus replaced another as haunting refrains of Murin’s voice came to him accompanied by humble instruments that framed her tune. What had become of the lass? He solicited the heavens in all earnestness as he held close his patron’s medal. Rounding the cobblestone corner, Alder’s query was abruptly rejoined with an image that struck with lightning wrath. Goode god! He growled under his breath, minting the imagine of St. Joseph into his tightening grip. He knew she was attractive, he imagined she might have had a suitor, he even understood that their ages and service to sea did not lend Neptune’s favor to a union, but this. . . What had become of the lad whose silhouette melted with hers on the eve? Was he so naive to have misjudged the lass and the tension he felt? He wanted desperately to turn heel and find another conduit to his destination, but he could only stare. The remnants of the rational carpenter realized that news of Mr. Pew would surely have made the ship by now and he should be doing likewise, but passion had him transfixed as Murin smiled and nodded to the stranger who had handed her a glass of some libation she seemed to be enjoying. Mayhaps she knew this man that he did not. Likely as that was, within moments the stranger took his leave and meandered toward the docks as did the tailor many paces behind and with somewhat less determination. Certain she would turn to look behind her, Alder unscrewed his expression and breathed deeply in effort to balance himself from his fractious imaginings; but she did not turn, nor would he from this path. Alder was again reminded his place and yet there was a burdensome need in this man of the earth to; like god’s own towering woodland sentinels, keep watch over the gentle. He would not allow his ego or his arrogance to let a valued tailor come into harms way from any venue. And so he set his course to duty; both noble and humble, and made his way well removed from the lass, back toward the Watch Dog and her service. In the ditant margin Resurrecting his form from the pile of goods that had molded to his body, Alder rose from his concealed bedding in the alley and languidly stretched his body to length; making all too slight a shadow for his liking. He hurriedly trekked toward the Chirurgeon's; following the best of the fragmented directions he had overheard. Had Mr. Pew survived the night? he pondered. Alder had seen his mother stealthy creep past the dog run to the out quarters to comfort the ill, much to his father’s trepidation. Some servants had survived fevers that plagues and some had found eternal rest as she soothed body and soul with medicinal and melody. He admired the gift of life and the fairer sex that nurtured it, but respected also the costs. One chorus replaced another as haunting melodies of Murin’s voice came to him accompanied by humble instruments that framed her tune. What had become of the lass? He solicited the heavens in all earnestness as he held close his patron’s medal. Rounding the cobblestone corner, Alder’s query was abruptly rejoined with an image that struck with lightning wrath. Goode god! He growled under his breath, minting the imagine of St. Joseph into his tightening grip. He knew she was attractive, he imagined she might have had a suitor, he even understood that their ages and service to sea did not lend Neptune’s favor to a union, but this. . . What had become of the lad whose silhouette melted with hers on the eve? Was he so naive to have misjudged the lass and the tension he felt? He wanted desperately to turn heel and find another conduit to his destination, but he could only stare. The remnants of the rational carpenter realized that news of Mr. Pew would surely have made the ship by now and he should be doing likewise, but passion had him transfixed as Murin smiled and nodded to the stranger who had handed her a glass of some libation she seemed to be enjoying. Mayhaps she knew this man that he did not. Likely as that was, within moments the stranger took his leave and meandered toward the docks as did the tailor many paces behind and with somewhat less determination. Certain she would turn to look behind her, Alder unscrewed his expression and breathed deeply in effort to balance himself from his fractious imaginings; but she did not turn, nor would he from this path. Alder was again reminded his place and yet there was a burdensome need in this man of the earth to; like god’s own towering woodland sentinels, keep watch over the gentle. He would not allow his ego or his arrogance to let a valued tailor come into harms way from any venue. And so he set his course to duty; both noble and humble, and made his way back toward the Watch Dog and his calling, In the distant margins of the thoroughfare, an additional witness to the scene set pace in echoed sentiment . . . and so the sprawled caravan was surreptitiously joined by a likewise bewildered Nathan Bly.