Alder

java junkie

The intricacies of the flora closed in curtains behind them as they moved deeper onto the trail that lead away from the noisy sprawl. The sweet scent of jasmine embracing the . humid air reminded him of hyacinth. The aroma lured his mind to source of the sweetest scents he had ever know. He recalled of the name of a most enchanting flower …Murin. Staring into the cleft of the woods; blurred the reality of presence with that of desire. Alder felt the hand against his; he imagined falling into the pools of distant eyes. His grip tightened as he contemplated what might transpire. Tracing up from his grasp and he was startled back to his senses in realization that he was still beside his guide from town and not grasping the hand he fancied. His fallible flesh had yielded completely to his psyches ruse. Alder was reddened and aghast further still when the lass titter with her downward glance, “Aye lad, you protest. . . but it seems I do bring you some pleasure.” “Enough, Woman!” He snarled, ejecting her hand from his, “I’ll have no more of this folly , be on you way, I shall find mine . . . alone.” Alder turned with an abrupt gait, and then shaking off his lunacy, he spun on his heels. “Wait, wait, Alder called after her in a somewhat conciliatory tone. As much as he wished he was able, he could not leave the vulnerable creature to find her way unescorted. He resumed his place beside her. The journey took on a stoic stillness; “She’s a lucky one, that lass” came the waif’s yearning tone as she looked back toward town. Alder mirrored the action of her glance as he wondered how his aspirations could be so obvious to this one and yet so obscured from Miss Macdonough that Murin would avoid his presence? Though the tension ebbed, not another word was spoken as the travel unfolded. Time passed as the path meandered eventually terminating onto a clearing. The rhythmic hum of solitary sawing pierced the calm as they closed in on the destination. Seasoned timbers were piled neatly to either side of a wide aisle. Statuesque cylinders of lumber stood as sentinels guarding the compound. Alder’s hand fell to the irregularly furrows of the undulating bark as if renewing an acquaintance. The lass was absorbed in her gazing at Alder, who seemed inexplicably transfixed in this place. He seemed wistful as his hands lay on a log, the layers of its life revealed by the vertical glance of a blade exposing the concentric crosssection. A single finger dragged along the ridges that revealed the course of its destiny even as a memory scores a man’s heart. Alder found familiar grain and texture within and without. He relished the nuances and complexities of the variety present. Strange tropicals lay alongside recognizable hardwoods; no doubt shipped in and bartered for. He ambled along exploring the ridges and fissures of logs awaiting the attention of adze and saw. Alder spied the singularly shaggy bark of hickory with its shallow groves reminiscent of the carver’s gouge. Aye, carving… Many of these magnificent, unhune giants were worthy of the carver's hand and cried out for resurrection aboard the bow of seaward vessel. The seasoned growth would easily withstand the barrage of worm, wind and wave even they resisted the onslaught of foraging beetle, beast and bane. Alder pondered the fate of The Heron, her identity, and her Captain. Would Captain Lasseter honor her with a fresh title? Would the Captain offer an effigy in wood or mystical creature that might revealed the spirit of the ship and in doing so shield it form harm and foul? He surveyed the expanse in expectation of promising discoveries. Shadowed remnants of blotching purples and green played upon the trunk of a mysterious specimen, but one that Alder recalled from the island. Could this be the grail he sought? Indeed it was; the telltale bark of Lignum vitae, once bright and distinct though now vapid. Negotiating with the keeper of the lot, Alder was able to secure not only limbs of lignum, but also various samples for the Captain. Returning his escort to the apothecary, he stumbled over an apologizing for his disinterest. The lass fell back into her world, reaching out to him only to offer the mortar and pestle which he accepted with much reserve. Alder turned. Securing the gift in his bag, he heard an indistinct clatter. As fortune would have it, there was enough coin remaining to venture a trip to the inn.

Flipper

Grease

hymn

Grace

Alder turned to the distant call of his surname and raised a brow as Miss McDonough appeared to strike the arm of her self-chosen companion. Curious, what manner of behavior or speech might have provoked such a response? Perhaps, he considered, she did not wish to attract the carpenters company to their soiree. Fleet of foot, the lad approached with his partner in tow; Alder struggled to recall his name. . . Bly, he sighed to himself, of course Bly. Curse the social convention that would beg recognition of names from man who could call each tree by two, though was vexed to unearth the one for each face. He found himself once again confronted by the duality of their presence, not wishing to engage the lad, though very much wanting to know the lass better. "Mister Wenge." Nathan held his hand out to the older man as they approached. As the carpenter extended his hand "Nathan Bly, able sea man. This is Miss Murin McDonough." Although bowing politely, Alder never released his communion with her eyes, awaited the lyrical melody of the voice that accompanied such a fascinating name. Prompted by a fierce nudge, Alder began an embarrassed introduction of the lass he had all but forgotten, even as she stood uncomfortably close beside him. As she leapt over his formalities Alder instead returned his attention to the favored young woman before him. He absorbed the vision that was Murin taking no notice of the deepening furrow of Master Bly’s disapproval at Alder’s consuming glances. She spoke . . . words tripped over themselves in the most charming accent he felt he had ever heard. There was wisdom in her young voice that belied the common verse, a delightful feminine ardor cloaked by wrinkled slops. Still, no avatar could long mask the transformation that took place between his eye and his heart. Aye, he listened intently, she would be staying at the Chateau. . . his mind began to dance with the diversion that sensibility bade not lay waste his plans. How best then to complete his quest, dislodge this stray and make his way back to the inn. Preparations grew with his ire as the whelp possessively alluded to an intimacy that Alder had shared with none since becoming outward bound. He felt a twinge in Murin’s expression and he wanted desperately to clarify, but was unable twice over in this mixed company. Although Bly was arguable closer to her age, his challenger lacked an appreciation for qualities Alder prized, and what had he to offer her, what sort of life might he provide. . . He bit his tongue at his ramblings, pride, envy, greed, three in mere seconds! He hardly knew the girl and knew even less of her interest in the likes of a carpenter nearly a decade her senior. Try as he might he had not been able to dampen his appetite for her acquaintance and this proximity only roused his hunger. “Time, my dear. . . in due time,” he shouted thoughts to her from within his head and with his eyes, anxious that such locus might transcend space and make its presence known to her. With the tug of his pretentious charge, he was set on a new path with urgent need to refocus his intent. Alder glanced only once over his shoulder and smiled as cascading locks, lifted by the breeze, faded into the distance. Had he seen the hand of Bly as it found Murin’s, his path might have taken an abbreviated course.

talons /smirk/

Perhaps it is for the best, Adler sighed as he set off from the dock redirecting his thought to more productive exploits. He trekked toward the swelling epicenter in search of a native or well-versed guide to the dryer woodland of the island in search of a specimen. Scouring the flipping pages of his journal as he walked, he found the equally illusive entry for lignum. Alder had heard rumors of the density of this indigenous wood caused it to sink in water. Imagine! Such prized concentration would suitable replace the handle of his adze, mallet, chisels . . . the inventory of recipients grew as he drew closer to the inn. Forever circumspect and reserved in exchange with the unfamiliar, Alder probed the innkeeper with little success but to redirect his path to the apothecary. Arriving at the doorstep of the quaint shop, his attention was caught by the flattened carving of pestle and mortar that seemed to salute passersby with each gust. Try as he may, he struggled to make out it’s origin neath layers of thick decoration, coat over coat as shielding from the elements. Even the weathered fissure would not reveal its heart. His need to know unmet he grasped the sun warmed knob and pried swelled lumber from its frame. An angry, unsettled bell summoned the shopkeeper who was still grinding his morning meal as he rounded a counter. “What ails ye, Son?” wheezed a grizzled soul who appeared more in need of medicinals than his patrons. “The innkeeper spoke of the apothecary who may know of lignum or a guide that I may secure some timber.” Alder began “might you be that sage?” The sot coughed out a laugh “Sage indeed, this mind is crisp as ever, though I fear my time is neigh. A bellowing cough punctuated the close. “There is timber to be had at some distance; my niece…” he added as a rather comely girl flew from hiding to gleam up at potentially liberating stranger. The pharmacist disapproving of her brazenness; cleared his throat and continued, “… will set you on the path.” Alder, distracted by the collection of mortar sets shelved across the back wall, offered no reply. “Daft man?” the keep queried at his rudeness, but the grip of the lass ultimately transformed his focus as he looked into her soft eyes and raised an astonished brow at her ethereal loveliness. Perhaps his optimism with this day was not ill founded. The lass seized a mortar; to the chagrin of her on looking liege, placing it in Alders palm as if to keep his free hand occupied and dragged him abruptly from the shop. He offered no resistance to the gentle assault, but went along as she led him down the center street toward the edge of town. Over his shoulder he could just make out the familiar gait of Miss McDonough and the lad he defined by their laggardness in arrival as her beau. Alder reassessed his prize, adjusted his grasp replacing hers in dominance as his guide led him into the deepening shade of the overhanging arbor.

Spying back at the Watch Dog as the distance began to offer a panorama of her full breadth, Alder observed its newest member bounding across the deck. A wide grin parted his lips as he fondly recalled the gregarious nature of the large beasts that guarded the perimeter of the manor house. His expression paled; however, as memory served a similar canine exuberance for chewing. Alder was optimistic neither rail nor peg would be ill served by the sounding chamber of the creature. The still echoing beast; however, was not the objective in surveyed the deck. He had been confident, his emotions stirred by the prospect of being in close confines as they had made their way through corridors to received gracious shares.. And yet, the paths of one Miss McDonough and Alder seemed to mysteriously deviate. Still, he rubbed one of several coins in hand, his thumb riding over raised textures, pondering its fate. Welcome as the share was, Alder was unaccustomed to gratitude in any of its incarnations. Inexplicable as his turn of fortunes, something about his chapter of his continuance held uncompromising promise. Alder shifted his view toward the port and beamed with a knowing smile.

Peaceful Night

The bounding voice of Mister Warren cascaded over the rail and fell on Alder’s ear. Uncomfortable trespassing upon private conversations, he deafened his attention to the sound. His consideration, however, piqued as cryptic ”Captain Brand”, “starboard watch” and “gather” fell soundly. Wiping the rivulet of sweat that fell in testament to his effort and gazing at the sun’s path, Alder assessed little time for the work he felt compelled to complete before the noon bell. The approaching lure of the shore might have offered more draw to Alder were there coin or cause to accompany. He mused about an evening in the company of one Miss McDonough; the moniker he had recent overheard from this surreptitious vantage point, now set to memory as well as imaginings. The merit and peril of this advantage became immediately apparent as a wake out of cadence nudged the hull. Alder’s perch tipped precariously, discharging a poorly grasped nail. He glanced down in some relief as the dispensable item was summarily swallowed into the ports murky depths. Would that had been a cherished tool, he would have dived headlong in its path and was already positioned to do the same. Alder refastened his few tools and then himself and summoned added vigilance to his task. The auburn glow of the mid-day sun danced in tress-like waves on the surface. “Blessed distractions”, he groused under his breath, belying an expression traced by a wry grin.

dernier cri

Hours succeeded hours as Alder lanced his mark through yet another of the dwindling tasks in restoring his transitory home. He glanced across the quilt of foam and water that buckled in the breeze and admired the Heron as it gently undulated with the incoming tide. Although some of the crew had joined the carpenter to serve the Captain and restore the Watch Dog to its glory, many were unfamiliar. Many presented a complication when attempting to communicate; owing to language or sophistication. Notwithstanding, he found great merit delving beyond manifestations to reveal the treasure cloistered within each being. Alder recalled the servile souls who acquiesced their freedom in exchange for what little measure of stability his family’s manor house and its trappings brought their haggard lives. Some had come to flee genuine bondage while others came to offer their progeny an exodus from a repressive caste. Whatever the reason, the Wenge family received only those who would bear their weight and thus made every endeavor to not only lighted their burden but also to save their souls. The well lacquered pew reserved in their name gave credence to their victorious proselytization. Generally removed from such dogmatic impetus, the bonds Alder had forged with these individuals were by far the most challenging to abandon when he fledged the comfort of place and station and set out to sea. Although his principle to serve was foremost, he longed for these familial bonds; not of birth, but of choice. Momentarily distracted, he reached into the sash wrapped at his waist to disclose an irritant scraping his skin and removed a remnant of the fronds he had ferreted away in his chambers. Alder grinned appraising the yielding pliability as he folded the fading greenery between his fingers. Bemused, he envisioned not only its eventual transformation, but also the anticipated delight in the glowing smile of its intended recipient.

shaken

Hornpipe

Shards of dawn pierced at eyes still clenched in slumber. In serene recollection, the repose Alder delighted at how harmoniously the starboard crew of The Watch Dog had toiled to complete their labors. Few tasks remained to set her on due course and himself again aboard The Heron. Though longing for the familiarity of the sleek vessel, his anxiousness to depart was tempered by a different sort of desire. Whirling images and melodies teased his senses. Alder repositioned himself with an exalted breath that rocked his powerful frame, one that exceeded the hammocks span even as his appetite for adventure aboard The Heron was exceeded by his need to serve. As he began to stir, Alder held fast the St. Joseph medal chained about his neck and in mystic guided supplication, mumbled the maxim carved atop the chest that held his tools Sapere aude, "Dare to be wise."

Easing into the motion of the day, Alder followed the procession of his compatriots onto the labyrinth of streets and shops of Cul du Sac Royal. Migrating between commerce and canteen, he saw every manner and station of humanity pour from shops and writhe from taverns. While his companions ferreted out all manner of good, Alder found himself transfixed by the carvings of shop signs, the detail in the architecture, and the surrounding vegetation. A latent botanist, he made quick sketches in a small leather bound book retrieved from the back of his slops. Alder snared a morsel of leaf now n again to press between the pages, making careful note as to height, girth and spread of the canopy knowing each union of branch and trunk bore silent testimony to the tensile strength of the grain and thus consecrated its usefulness. How his existence paled to insignificance beneath the canopy of the Goliath poised above him. The aerial roots of the majestic tree latched a stronghold in the earth in every manner possible lest it be cast adrift by hurricane winds or surge. All manner of flora was either cultivated or sequestered in opportunistic niches between shop and street. Plants the likes of which that he had experiences in text alone. Alder rubbed the cardboard textured leaves of a palm-like growth collecting a vivid orange seed from its crown. A cycad! The delighted grin of his satisfaction soon waned having no one with which to share his discovery. At his feet tiny whorls of white flowers of heliotrope that turn with the passing of the sun reminded Alder his time on the island paradise was swiftly drawing to a close. As he made his trek toward the docks, he glanced up to see a familiar face as she examined the finery within a quaint little haberdashery. Longing to offer some token he eased forward, but light of coin, a withdrawl to await another opportunity to surface. With a roguish smirk, fronds from a nearby palm were tucked away for safekeeping. Leaving the vision, Alder picked up his pace as he wondered what had become of the unfinished tasks yet left on the quartergalley as well as what provisions would be made to return the damaged foremast to its former glory. He had been impressed, even a bit anxious to shadow Rummy as she plied the trade with adept skill that he not only admired but also desired to emulate. Alder caught himself as once again, women aboard transfixed his focus in one manner or another. It was unseemly! He shook off the notion and eyed the masses for the host of the starboard watch as he merged toward the reunion with his work and his newfound home.

Conversation seeking unlikely contrition

Tis an honore to be permitted to extending the celebration with this belated natal greeting, Such posts reveal the admiration of thy friends is no doubt exceeded only by its merit. My best wishes to you as you journey the magnificent year ahead! Mister Wenge Carpenter

Potato Head

cementhead

no wait. . . flimflammed

bamboozled

disrobe