Alder

thunderstruck

reverberation

^ Twice, maybe three times. Drought here is slowing the turf down significantly. < The smoke from northern fires has cleared and I am enjoying the great outdoors. V How did you honor your mother this day or that of your children?

uno

As quickly as the specter behind Murin appeared, she surreptitiously vanished leaving Alder dumbfounded that Miss McDonough’s companion would abandon her. His mind simultaneously grasped for ideal words that would not present themselves. He tugged the whiskers of his mustache twirling them between his thumb and forefinger in nervous habit. Would this sweet vexation not whisper more than his name? The silence was deafening. “What ‘ave you there lass?” he smiled in gentle query. Alder reached for the book in her hand, glazing tender flesh as he sought only to urge the text to inspection. Startled by the contact verbiage blurted from a shaken Murin “Dis book…nae, I wus jus ere wit mae…” She spun around looking for Jenny who might rescue her from this dilemma. What to do now? What if he expected her to read? Her evident panic was familiar to Alder; he had experience similar anxiety from lads dragged from stable and field by his father to serve as companions. Joyously sharing play and folly, he became acutely sensitive to the lack of formal education and the unnecessary burden felt by those who learned life’s lessons, not secondhand from text, but from the shaping forge of life itself. “Lass forgive me for being so meddlesome, have you seen the shopkeeper?” he delicately changed the conversation not wishing to reveal the likelihood that she was similarly challenged by text. He did notice that the book, though a simple primer, was in English. That would offer some opportunity for exchange. “I have need of a new journal and writing tool” he handed his worn book to Miss McDonough who set the text in her hand aside and took the journal tenderly, opening it apprehensive that a barrage of script would taunt her. Instead, a smile flooded her expression. Murin melted as she looked again into his eyes. “I ‘dint know ya bae an artist Mister Wenge.” Murin looked back to the tomb flipping page after page to reveal intricate details of leaf and unfolding flower. The shading of tree and even sunsets urged memorized colors though there was only the stark black ink and faded gray of graphite. “You tease me good woman,” he smiled; the double entendre apparent to both, then paused with a request for informality “Alder, please.” “Mayhaps,” he quickly continued “I could read my scratch to you sometime, tis far too untidy for anyone else to comprehend.” “Aye. . .” she hesitated “Alder” and taking his lead added “I wod much like dat.” Alder was rewarded more handsomely by this response than he would dare imagine.

pages

reins

flews QUOTE=Alder,May 10 2007, 05:12 AM] flock [Hey, how do you expect me to keep things clean with prompts like that? Ah well... I'll try!] (more temptation here than "flock")

flock

fire-eater

pyroclastic

molten

The sound of her name came to him with a delicate voice that sailed on a waft of the fusty air. Contemplation made corporeal, what spell is this? Alder stood puzzled, prying his glance from the text in his hand turning in the general direction of the utterance. A torrent of warmth flooded his being in realization that the illusive creature who graced the melodious moniker stood just across the aisle from him. Lips poised to speak froze on the pair as they drank in wholly the vision of one another. Such a tender lass, Alder absorbed every nuance wishing to engrave the vision lest she fly from him yet again. His eyes traced delicate shoes; feminine and ideal for this setting but biting a blush into her unaccustomed feet. How like her, he smiled, devoting such industry and determination to every endeavor be it aboard the ship or this requisite camouflage of her true self. A skirt flowing with all the hues of the sea, cascaded from her tapered waist framing her femininity. A feminity unmistakable even in her conventional slops. The thin fabric of a blouson chemise; ideally suited to the tropical climate, revealed the tan of her flesh though barred any further, improper view. Forcing his trace upward, Alder lauded the amusing disguise with a smile and was captured within the sparkle of her bright eyes. “Murin, ‘er Miss Mcdonough. . .forgive my familiarity.” he stumbled over his words as he spied another lass coming into view over Murin’s shoulder. By her trek, it was clear the two were clearly foraging together. Better this, he thought than she and Bly, but still not alone. Perhaps this paring may provide a catalyst rather than a chasm. He could only hope a shared understanding of the sexes may bridge the impasse of emotion he sought to cross. His mind vaulted to the future. What of the expected decorum aboard a vessel? Long before he laid eyes on the captivating woman, Alder envisioned the struggle to balance service and passion on a ship shared by such company. Perhaps Murin would remain aboard the Dog and he the Heron, meeting on occasion as chance would have it. He neither wanted to forsake this opportunity to be acquainted with Miss Mcdonough nor threaten his position and loose the respect of his Captain or his comrades. He was a carpenter first and foremost with allegiance well rooted within The Heron. Alder stood dumbfounded, grasping for ideal words that would not present themselves.

The music of brass on brass of the married hook and eye pierced into the wind. The sign that they bound to the wooden arm swung to and fro. Such a meticulously detailed carving of a book made Alder imagine that any moment a page would tear from its bindings. He mused quizzically that a bookseller would not simply inscribe “book”, French “livre” or better still comparable Latin “libri” instead of the classic icon. Stepping inside, he could make out only shelf after glorious shelf standing just taller than his head lined with quaint and curious volumes. A stool resting near the base of the towering cases allowed access to upper shelves; an accommodation the carpenter found unnecessary. Where among these soaring barricades hid the shopkeeper who might offer the sought after virgin folio and writing implements? Alder heard the rustling of motion within the shop. He did not wish to disturb a fellow patron, choosing instead to select a book and preview it’s text until stumbled upon by the elusive custodian of this collection.

animation

Alder traversed the maze of alleyways that took him back toward the inn. Along the path he took in the natural splendor of the island. Glossy dark green leaves arched in the wind revealing their striking burgundy undersides. Foliage of every form and hue reached into the constricted trail to caress passersby. A formidable bee, legs laden with pollen, cavorted within the yielding petals of an exquisite blossom. A variety of hibiscus, as best Alder could make out of the tropical flower, displayed on the woody trunk of the shrub. Its scaffolding bent by prevailing winds and overflowed with blooms. He dug into his bag and withdrew a well-worn journal. Alder stretched for one of the botanical jewels to garner a better view. He smiled as he juggled the still attached blossom and book in one hand and began scripting with the other. The deliberate, gray marks of graphite that filled the tomb, chronicled his detailed observations and happenstance discoveries on many an adventure. Succinct verbiage annotated the enchanting scents and sensations that could not be transferred through his illustrations. Scraping the tip of his writing tool along the course edge of a rock, Alder embark on the task of recreating each slender filament with its bobbling anther powdered with potential. Each stamen lay poised to offer the promise of life to a bulbous pistil ripe with anticipation. Line followed line, the angle dragged on the page, shading and highlighting surfaces. Satisfied with his recording he ambled on. Flipping the pages for an errant leaf, but finding none, he fell on the last sheet of the journal. Alder cast his eyes downward, shaking his head in disbelief only to have his vision graced yet again. Violet faces peaked at him surreptitiously amid tangled vines of ivy. How curious; he reflected, to discover these two icons together; ivy, the symbol of fidelity and violets representing modesty. Among the scholarly teaching of his youth, his father set about the task of refining the culture of a gentleman. The illuminated language of botany wrenched it way into these lessons; not as a skill in and of itself, but as a means to an end. In this way, secrets could be exchanged with a lilac or peony. Entire conversations could take place in a bouquet. Revisiting with dismay his last blank sheet and nub of graphite, Alder decided to abandon the page and seek out a merchant offering such wares.

mystery

Intrigue

plot

leaf

stem

Liquor

Wine Country

Vinyard

Blue Mountain