Grassroots Discussion: Black Shanglan, 8-29-04, SDC common queue

[Pure]

This is Black Shanglan's Story, _From The Hesperus _

{{NOTE: 10-15-04 Black Shanglan, based on feedback from this forum and own reworking, has posted a revised version at the end of this thread. Although Black's 'official' time is not in the spotlight, all threads are open, and any who wish to comment and/or check out the new version, are encouraged to do so.

Pure.}}


The author's questions are at the end.


Note, in response to some suggestions, I (pure) am posting it. This will help insure that the 'common queue' is distinguished. As well, I've incorporated that phrase into the thread title. Hence the stories of queue jumpers or persons unclear about what's going on will generally be distinguishable in two ways; one if I merely direct postings by the authors themselves, without making them. (The titles of the authors' own postings should contain the phrase ' SDC common queue.')



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Title:
From The Hesperus

Portsmouth
The King’s Head
January 10, 1865

My dear Marie,

The ship is laden at last, and we sail on the evening tide. This week past has been a torment to me and to your brother. Tom feels it as much as I do, this frustration of standing idle in port when we might have lingered longer by your side. I hope you know how hard it was to tear ourselves away; only our need could force us. To be faced with a long delay when we arrived was bitter to us both. Now at last we are underway, or will be soon – we only wait for the tide.

I dreamed of you last night. It seemed almost wrong in a rough place like this. But I dreamed that you gave me your blessing. If only I might have slept on for that gentle kiss you stooped to give me. But I woke to moonlight and Tom quiet on his cot. For his sake I stifled your name on my lips; I would not wake him by calling for you, for he is as weary as I, and sorry to part from you. We spent this last night ashore, for I know it will be hard for Tom in the close quarters below decks. I wanted to spare him as long as I could. But he will make a good sailor. He is brave and faces his duty well, though I know it pains him to leave you. With luck, he will rise soon to be an officer, and find himself again in quarters somewhat kinder. Until then, I will do all that I can for him.

I miss you, beloved. My mind lingers on my last sight of you, there in the quiet of our little house. You are there always, in my mind; I pray that this will letter reach you.

Your Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 12, 1865

Marie –

We are upon the seas now, dearest. I will hold my letters and bring you my words when we meet. I know they cannot reach you, but it is a comfort to me to sit the night in my cabin, thinking of my love for you. They would laugh, these rough sailors, to see me. But Tom does not laugh; he comes to sit with me, some nights, and we are comforted in this thought: that our minds together are upon you.

I dreamed of you again. I wish my heart might reach you as you sleep. I dreamed of that day we walked on the strand at Portsmouth, before we wed – when I first went away to the sea. You took my arm, and Tom ran ahead to chase the gulls on the rocks. Your eyes were so wise that day, Marie – so wise and sea-gray, with the blue in them. I saw how you worried for my body and my soul. For my love of you. But you held me there on that strand, with your calm strength and the faith that was in your gaze. My heart was with you all that long voyage.

Do you remember that day, Marie? Is your heart there now, as mine is? I pray so. But I woke too soon again and never felt your kisses.

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 13, 1865

Dear Marie,

Calm seas. Easy sailing, and the men are in good spirits. I think of you tonight, with the bright stars one sees upon the ocean.
Put your heart to rest. I know how you worry for Tom. It is true, this is no gentle life – but he is a good man, and strong in his heart. He thinks of you, and that keeps him from growing too rough in his ways. We have a good crew as well; the bosun, the sailing master, and half the hands have all sailed on this journey before, and good men they were. We will see no harm from them upon the seas, and I promise you, my gentle one – I will keep Tom by me when we come into Lisbon. He will not be drawn into danger in the port.

But he is a good lad. Old, to be so new to the trade; a man of twenty with no sense of the sea is a rarity amongst us. The men taunt him, and call him “Farmer Tom.” But he takes it quietly and works with an earnest good will, and the bosun speaks well of his progress. It comforts me to have him near, he with your eyes and your bright hair. He has your fire and diligence as well, and nothing is left undone around him. He will rise, Marie, and make something of himself. Do not fear.

How sorry I was to take him from you. Can you forgive me that? I could see no other way. I pray that you know how much I longed to leave him with you, your gentle protector. His place, I know, is by your side – more even, perhaps, than mine is, for you share one blood. That is the thing I have always loved best in you both: your devotion to each other. I would never break that for my own purpose.

But – I am sorry to speak of it, but with the deaths of your parents – ah, Marie. I would have given any thing to hold that farm for you, those fields where you ran barefoot, the stables where we played as children, the deep pond where you came – yes, I saw you, little vixen – to peep on Tom and I when we swam. I have loved that home and that little valley with a love fierce and wild, for they gave me all that was dear to me. I cannot say what it cost me to leave them, and it wrung my heart to take Tom as well. But now we must all seek our fortunes, and go abroad upon the world.

I have this comfort left. I know that you, at least, remain close by the home of our childhood, and I picture you in the little wooded dell by the chapel, waiting the rise of the flowers in springtime. Before those flowers have gone, my sweet, I swear – we will return.

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 16, 1865

Two days under the force of the tempest. Forgive me for not writing. My heart is always with you.

The storm was unlooked-for, rising fast. It caught us with canvas up and we lost the topmast before we could take in sail. We limp now toward the Spanish coast, hoping to make La Coruña. We have lost much of our water with barrels sprung in the hold, but no men, thank God. We shall make port safe enough, my love, but we are slowed in our journey. This weighs down both our hearts, Tom’s and mine, for we know that it draws you further from us. Yet we comfort each other, and are of good courage.
And of courage is Tom made. He was our champion this storm. I tell you because he will never say it himself. There are men here owe their lives to him. He has taken some taunting for his quiet ways and his close company with his captain. But he hears no taunting now. He is gone to sit the evening with them, drinking rum and hearing their boisterous tales. Think kindly of him, Marie; the company will cheer him, and I will bring him home to you the same good, kind Tom he has always been.

Richard

(post script)

Forgive these words. I have lingered long, but I must add them. I fear for Tom. Not for his soul; he has that same bright, calm strength that I have always seen in him, ever since we were boys together, though he was the youngest of us. But there is something in his eyes, Marie. He looked upon death last night, and he was not afraid. It was not courage alone. It was … emptiness. A hollow place. He fears nothing, like a man who has nothing.

Come to him. Send him your heart. He needs it.

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 18, 1865

I pleaded that you would come to your brother. How was it, Marie, I found you myself? For I dreamed of you this night past, and at last I felt your lips again.

We were down by the hedgerow, where the orchard meets the pond, that day you first kissed my lips and made my heart leap like a hare. Have I ever told you truly how you moved me, just with the touch of your hand and the kiss that you gave me? I dreamed of that day, when Tom ran chasing rabbits and then blushed to come upon us. I dreamed us both again by the hedgerow, and was sorry to wake to an empty ship.

If all goes well, we will make La Coruña tomorrow. More then. Perhaps I may send these letters. I pray that they find you safe and at peace.

Your Richard


La Coruña
January 19, 1865

My dear Marie,

We have come to La Coruña. True to my word, I have kept Tom close by; he came with me today to seek all we needed. The carpenter is fast at work with hands to help him; we take on water and provisions in the morning and look to brace and backstay the mast. With luck we will leave port in a few days. Hampered in the language – ah, yes, you laughed at my French, but you never heard my Spanish – I have not yet found a chance to post my letters. But I will try. Even to be on land again reminds me of you. The town is nothing like Portsmouth, but I thought of you at the little church with its smooth-plastered walls and its bell tower. Tom came with me, and we gave you our prayers, our good angel. Do not fear for him amongst the low pleasures of the port; he lies quiet tonight aboard ship.

Our love to you –

Richard


La Coruña
January 21, 1865

My Marie,

Tom is quiet still, and I worry. I had hoped that the busy life of the port would brace him; I even gave him the day to do as he wished, fearing that in my close watch upon him I had perhaps been too harsh. He is a man, young and abroad in the world for the first time; do not think evil of it, Marie, but he must be let to roam, and not have me, his captain and brother, always over his shoulder. You know how good his heart is; I fear no harm to his soul. He will come back to us as gentle and kind as he has always been.

But he will not go, and this troubles me. They do not even taunt him now, his crewmates, and it is not because of his courage in the storm – though they love him for it, and would make much of him upon the port town if he would allow it. No. There is something in him that forbids their jibes, whether ill meant or kindly, and a silence hangs over him as he lingers on the deck.

I begin to doubt if I should post this. I would not trouble you untimely, but … my love. Think of him.

Richard


La Coruña
January 23, 1865

Marie –

We make ready to sail. It is well; this low, salt town carries a weight and thickness in the air, and it settles heavily upon me. Sleep comes slowly, and my dreams are uneasy. I have seen you there – once or twice, a fleeting glimpse. But never to touch you again, Marie – never yet to kiss.

I should send these letters to you. It is selfish that I do not. But all I have of you for now is my pen and the ink upon this paper. You will forgive me, Marie, I know, if I keep them some little while longer. You will know all the better how I love you when you can read them at last.

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 24, 1865

My dear Marie,

We are at sea once more. I am perhaps a little weak; the damp night air of La Coruña sits heavy in my chest. But do not trouble yourself. I will come home to whisper these words in your ear, by the fireside in our own little house.

But Marie. Give your prayers to Tom. Though my words do not reach you, my heart may. I pray that I am wrong; I pray that I will tear this sheet in halves long before we make Portsmouth again, and have no reason ever to think back upon these fears. But he grows reckless. He is wild and heedless, and his eyes are too bright to look upon. This day a coil of rope was let slip and fell into the waves. He leapt over the rail like a madman and dove after it. When we had hauled him back up to the deck he stood there with the water running from him, and his eyes blazed when they met mine. And I – forgive me, Marie. I could say nothing to him. For I had seen him this night past, weeping over your picture when he thought I did not see.

I do what I can, Marie. But I beg you, give him your heart.

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 28, 1865

At last I can write again. It is good to think that you will see my words when I am safe from storm and travail. But my strength is not what it has been; I am tired, and ache in my bones. Now the fever is upon me. But do not fear, Marie. I rest, tonight, and have sworn to Tom that I will spend no more than an hour in thought before I sleep.

I worry for him still. You know how good a man I think him, and I could never see any harm in Tom. He is a better man than I. But whether through proving his worth amongst the rough men of our crew, or – more, I think – that his poor gentle nature is torn with parting from you – he is so grieved, Marie, that I can hardly look upon him. I do all I can. He dined with me last night, and we did not stand upon ceremony. We came quiet to my cabin and solaced ourselves with talk of you. His nature is finer than any man’s I have known, and the love of you shone forth from him so that it stirred my heart to see it – and to see you in him, for he has your eyes and those clean cut features that are your family’s alone. He is all the comfort I have, Marie, and I love him all the more because he brings your face to mind. But I saw how his eyes glanced from mine as we ate, and that look of sorrow that hangs upon him. At last I bid him sleep upon the chairs in my own cabin, for I began to fear to leave him alone. Or do I fear to leave myself? I will tear this letter in pieces, Marie, and your eyes will never see it. For there is nothing in Tom’s gaze, no bright light of sorrow and despair, that I have not seen each morning in the glass.

It was well he stayed with me that night, for the fever came. I woke raving – so he tells me – I remember nothing of it. I know only that I woke wet with the heat and the damp cloths Tom laid upon my skin to draw the fire from it. I felt nothing of his help that night, though the surgeon was brought and they both strove to rouse me. I knew only that I dreamed of you. I kissed your lips, Marie. I felt them on my fevered skin, and dreamed that it was your touch that spread the fire through me. How I dream of you, Marie. Do you dream of me as well?

Tom is come. I must have done. My love –

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 31, 1865

I write only weakly, and for this I am sorry. But Tom is kind, and as strong as ever. I worry less for him now. The chills and trembling are heavy upon me, and when the light blinds my eyes and burns in my head, then I know nothing of what I say, or where I am, or what I do. But kind Tom. He keeps to my side, and hardly sleeps. I thank God for you both.

I ache, and can write only a little more. But this. Our Tom. I worried that his longing for you made him careless; I feared that I would lose him to his own wild impulse. But your poor weak Richard is his cure; he has found a thing to devote himself to. He is good to me; he stays by my bedside, cooling my skin and coaxing me to drink. When I wake in the night, tormented with heat and uneasy dreams, he is always there, and soothes me to sleep. Good Tom. Does he know who I dream of?

Marie. I live for these dreams. When will I see you again?

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
February 1, 1865

I met you once more last night, Marie. My lips touched yours in the twilight lane, where we kissed in the shadow of the blackthorn hedge. Tom was there, weaving garlands, and the blossoms lay like snow on your skin. We laid you gentle on the green sward and scattered the blossoms on your body. Where were you, Marie, when I dreamed of your soft white limbs?
I woke again in the long night watch, and I saw you standing there, your gentle lips stooped to mine. But it was Tom come to tend me, worried that I cried out in my sleep. He thinks it the fever, my sweet Marie. Or does he know my thoughts?

We are too long apart. I see you always. The dark is my friend, for when the lamps are out and the waves lap the ship, then you come before me. When we roll on the swells and the night comes down, it lulls me, Marie, like the sound of your voice, that day in the orchard when I lay my head in your lap and you cradled me as I slept.

Why do you come to me, Marie? And why is it you go?


The Hesperus, at sea
February 4, 1865

Marie. I found you pacing the deck. I knew you by your hair and the gown you wore when last I saw you. What peace there was upon you then – but you walk my deck uneasy.

I came to you. Was Tom. How strange the thing. How strange. But tonight I saw you there again, out almost on the bowsprit so that I cried out at your danger. But nothing there. No thing at all. Only Tom, come close behind me, to pull me back with my empty arms. He has brought me to bed. He thinks it the fever. I drink too much wine.

Shhh, Marie. Kiss me again. I feel your lips now, every night. When I close my eyes we are in the bed of our little cottage and I hear the night owl cry. Do you remember that night, the night of our wedding? When Tom came with us to the house, driving the old brown mare? He blushed as he left, with the twilight falling all around. But he might have stayed, for it was right for him to be under our roof. How glad I was, when he came to live with us, that I might see your smile light every day upon his face.
But that night – so quiet – your touch so kind, for I hardly knew how to come to you. Sweet friend of my childhood. Good gentle touch, always strong and the best of my life. How I loved you that night. How glad I was – how joyous – to feel your touch the first upon me. It was like coming home, back to that land every child glimpses, the last sight of Paradise before the portals close. We found that again. So sweet, your touch; all my fear and awkwardness left me, and we loved so sweetly through that night, learning to touch, learning to please, finding the way of each other. My patient one. Your words soothed me, and when at last we touched that divine mystery – oh, my soul. My soul is forever yours.

I am there still. I see you rising from our bed. Marie. Why is it that I see you yet? The dawn is coming, and I see you still. I long for your kisses. Let me feel them again. Surely it is your lips I kiss. Surely your and no other’s.

I see you, Marie. I see you always.

R


The Hesperus, at sea
February 5, 1865

Forgive. Marie. My heart. Forgive.

What can I say? You know I have loved him. Loved him because he loved you. But forgive me.

It was you in him. This morning. The light so gray. I wept, Marie, in my sleep; I have made no mention of it, for I did not wish you to weep as well. Do you feel how my heart cries out to you? I pray that you do not. I pray your heart was blind to mine this morning.

I dreamed you fleeting, dark, beyond my reach. I stood in our home, that morning when I kissed you last. I stood again at the door with all my heart aching, and I cried out to you to come to me. You came and met my lips, and all my soul awoke.

It was Tom. Forgive me. Forgive. It was his lips met mine in the gray dawn light, with all my heart aching for you. His eyes. So like yours. His hair. To my touch. To my hands. His lips – and our souls drew close. It was you there. Your name between us. For your sake, I could not bear the pain in his eyes – your blue – your eyes. His hands. Strong, and my body weak with fever. His arms. I touched his cheek, and – God, forgive me. Forgive. I kissed his lips, and it was, for all the world – that same moment when I first kissed you. Strange. Sweet. And mastered entirely.

God hold you from ever reading these words. I will destroy them as soon as I have the strength. But I confess. How I touched his hair. How I kissed his lips, that met with mine. How his hands came to me and my heart trembled. He is so like you. Strong and kind to my suffering. It wounds him to see me thus, and he brings me the only comfort he can. His kiss. Wild. Gentle. Tender as your own. Lips. Hands.

No more than that. No more, I swear. His body close to mine, our lips met, the scent of his skin and his rough linen. His strength. God, I need his strength. Marie. I cannot – please – do not make me say it. How I need you. How I need you both. Tom. I love him. I love you in him. Come to us, Marie, I beg you. I am near to madness. Guide me.

Your Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
February 7, 1865

This storm. So long. Will it end?

I love you. Marie. All my heart goes to you. For you, I write out the record of my sins. For you, I confess and beg God’s forgiveness. For you, I will burn my thoughts. I will unwrite my words in lines of fire, and you will never know this shameful thing.

He has come to me. His eyes, blue-grey … that soft blue-grey that only yours could match. Gentle friend whose love is fierce, devotion wild in his heart. Like no other. No other but you.
What we had done … we were ashamed. God, I could not look at him. Tom. My friend and brother, whom I swore to guard and bring to safety. Whose soul I had pledged to protect above all things. How much I wronged him by leading that trusting spirit astray in the moment of his sorrow. He did not know what he did. So I swore to myself. For he is young, a man in years but innocent, kind at heart and more, in truth, like you than me.

So I shied away from him, determined not to be the tool of his unmaking. I forced myself from my fever bed to walk the deck, when I tore myself from his lips as they sank to mine. God. His lips. I could not stay there. He was hurt, and that look in his eyes – the longing, the misery that he saw alike in mine – that nearly brought me back. So hurt. So sorrowed. But I feared the wrong that I might do him. I kept away until exhaustion drove me back to my bunk. But he was always by me, watchful – not for himself, good honest Tom, but fearing what I might do, made desperate. I had the mate put him on the dawn watch, for I could not see him here again, not in the light of the morning. I kept to my cabin and fell to sleep, I swear, with no face but yours in my mind. No face, no eyes, no soft bright hair but your own.

But the fever came again, and I lay raving with the heat and the strain. They lay me in my bunk and prayed for my soul. When I knew myself again Tom was by me, hunched on the floor against the bed, still clutching the cloth he had wet to soothe my brow. He lay against the edge of the bunk, his hand and arm upon the sheet where he slumped when even love could drive his tired flesh no longer. With his head bowed in sleep, his body trailing soft upon the bed, the locks of his hair fallen loose about his face – Marie. What he did to my heart. I stirred, and when he woke to meet my eyes, I touched his hand.

His lips. Again. Like a fire. It was not the fever alone that burned upon my skin. Hungrier. Yes. God, forgive me. It is love, I swear. But it was hunger too, desire that shook me. His skin, rough with the wind and salt, tanned on his face but white still beneath his shirt. I kissed there before I knew my purpose, kissed and tasted flesh like yours, soft and white, but strong beneath, a strength that stirred me deep. So tired, Marie. I am so tired, and all my body cries out to you. To him. To you both. Is it so strange, Marie, that the only words we spoke were your name? You lay between us, my beloved. All that night. When his lips touched mine, and our hands met flesh, and – he came into my bed, Marie. Forgive me. God, forgive me. But his place was there, as natural as the swelling of the waves. His body strange but close to mine, his touch, his hands, the scent of his skin – your name, Marie. Your name again. And he did not rebuke me. Nor I him, when he spoke it aloud, but shared our pain between us.

God strike me for my sinning heart. But how could it be but right? Your hair beneath my hands, your lips touched to mine, your scent and body driving upon my senses. Naked. Can I but shudder at the thought? Yet I shudder and do not fear. Naked. Close. How your body lay with mine, that night we first were joined. God. No other touch but yours. No other in all my life. Then Tom. Marie, God, help me. I damned myself in that touch.

Yet I lay with him through the night. Body to body. Heart to heart. Lips met. Warm against him. I did not – I – spared him the worst dishonor. But Marie. Help me. I cannot – his body – his eyes. I touched him. And he cried out, and his voice was yours. He came to my body, my friend, companion of boyhood, friend of all my years – my dear brother from you, my wife. Forgive me. I loved him, and in his body – God, his straight, taut body, so strong, so wild, so much your own and so unlike – there was love that answered and joined with mine. He curled to me as trusting as a child, his arms about my neck and his face to my chest, all the strength of him, the power of his manhood, come gentle to comfort and be comforted. I kissed him, Marie, in my love of him – and my love of you. My love for you both.

I am damned. For I loved him there, close upon my body, and I pressed against his for comfort, strength – and hunger. Yes. Hunger. When I brought my hands to him – God forgive me. I will destroy this. With the first light. But … I took him in my hands, and touched upon him, his smooth, taut body, touched as I longed to feel him touching me. When my hands closed on him he trembled and clung to me, sweetly, God, as sweetly as my own, my dear Marie. He called me by my name, his voice rough and broken that he stung me to tears, and I kissed him, my beloved one, and called him to me. I … was as strange to him, Marie, as his hands were to me. I – forgive me – it was – ah, Marie. Our wedding night. How kind we were to each other. How gentle. How slow and soft to touch our bodies, to learn our ways, to find tenderly the path to pleasure. I … thus with Tom. Gentle. Tender. And – my soul. Ah, my soul. Marie. I was lost, as he beat softly and pulsed within my hands, and cried and moaned against my body. I held him long, my sweet Marie, and I would not put him from me, not for any thing. I held my Tom close by me, and when I slept – my God, Marie, did I dream you smiled?


The Hesperus, at sea
February 9, 1865

He has found my letters. God help me, I can hardly write.

He has found them, Marie, and read them, though I begged him not to. Though I would have taken them from him, he would not give them up and – I fell to my bunk, I could not look at him, and – he read them, Marie. He read them all. Oh, Tom. Our Tom. My heart broke to see him. He put his head to the desk and wept. His poor broken body. His soft hair trailing over my letters. His hands that clenched and trembled in fists. I longed to help him, Marie, I did. I wanted to go to him. He was so hurt. So lonely. But then – then he – said –

He was angry, Marie. He would not have said it otherwise. He loves you with all his heart; he is your good, kind brother. He would not have said that thing for all the world, but he was hurt, and torn to the heart, and did not know where to lay his grief.

You know what it was he said. Do not make me say it.

Marie, my only.

Your Richard loves you.


The Hesperus, at sea
February 10, 1865

He – I love you, Marie. You know I do. I will not give you up. Marie, I beg you – do not forsake me. Without you there is – there is only –

Tom. He came me again. That night, that evening, when the sun was sinking in the sky, and – oh, God. My mind, Marie. I no longer know day from day, nor night from morning, nor my dreams, Marie, from waking, for you are always there before me, with your golden hair and your eyes like the sea. Your lips touch mine in flesh and spirit, and I am lost between you.

He is so beautiful, Marie. That morning, before he found my letters – his touch so gentle – a moment, Marie, I dreamed myself with you, home in our narrow bed, close by the wall of the little cottage with the larks singing in the wheat. That moment I saw into heaven, and I drew you to me, the scent of your skin filling my senses, the brush of your hair on my lips.

But I knew him, Marie. I knew what I did. And I did it, though I knew with whom. Though I saw your gentle eyes all the while.
But how could I put him from me? His eyes, that soft blue-gray, so trusting … so afraid. He feared the pain that could come from me, who never had any thought of him but love and joy and affection. I could not do it, Marie. I could not put him from me. And – pray for me. I did not want to.

The dawn light. The gray dawn light. Will it ever be day again? I saw him in it, his golden hair touched to lead, his eyes sunk and lost their shining blue, all dull pain and shadow. So young, Marie; he looked so young, with his body curled against mine and his eyes pleading for comfort. I drew him close, and kissed his hair, and touched my lips to his. Then he stirred and laid his face against my chest, and – ah, Marie. He wept. He wept, I know, for you, my love, his grief as open and innocent as a child’s, as strong and wild as a man’s. I held him to me, his tears on my skin, comforted in our pain. And he murmured low against me – “We share this, Richard. Let us be true.”

I held him to me, and stroked his hair, and kissed him. He had need of it, I swear. I could not bear to see it again – God, not now – that terrible light that burned in his eye, the day we sailed from Portsmouth. That day he went into the Spanish sea for a shilling’s worth of rope. I held him to me until at last our hearts lay at peace and – Marie. Our bodies stirred.

He would have – put his lips upon me. His … mouth. Upon my body, that ached to it. God, can I say this thing? I could not do it, my poor Tom; I could not betray him so. God, forgive me. I – tried to do right. What right was left me. I only wanted that he should be comforted at last. That some day I should see again that bright, soaring lark’s joy that he had – my love, you know it well, but how long has it been since I saw it? What joy I might bring him, what joy, if any – I owed him that, our sweet Tom, whom I took from you though all my heart protested. And so I – did that thing, I think he would have done for me. I … took him, Marie. Into myself.

Sweet to me. Sweet was the touch of his body. I wish I could lie to you, Marie, but your eyes have always found me out. Even as a child, you always knew the truth, whether I wished you to or not. You made me an honest man, for a lie could never pass those wise, gentle eyes. And oh – the touch of him was sweet to me. His hands upon my skin, his lips touching my neck, my chest – oh, God. Belly. Thighs. And there I must, I must stop him, and how else, Marie? How else?

His thighs. Like you. Do you remember that night, Marie, when you first let me kiss where I so longed to touch you? Do you recall how long we trembled, my lips upon your thighs, hardly daring to kiss again, softer, higher, where I longed to touch? How your body arched up to mine when at last my lips came to you? How you cried, and trembled, so that I half-feared, and lifted my mouth? How you begged me, sudden and wild, stirring my blood beyond all words when you pleaded with me to give my touch again?

It was that night, Marie. From the moment my lips touched his thighs. Tom shuddered, trembled in his innocence. He had that catch of breath, that sudden cry as if for mercy – it works my mind to madness now, the arch of his body, the trembling grip of his hands. It was – oh, spare me the words that can never say, beneath the shame of it, what beauty it was – to see you in him.
And then – I – there was that – God. Yes. Difference. He was you, Marie, and he was Tom, and my mind – it ran upon you both. My heart so torn between you. But the hunger rose up like a trembling fire, and I – took him in my hands.

Warm. Strong. Smooth and hard, like the handle of an axe wrought fresh from the ashwood. Taut and heavy, grateful to the touch – my God, how can I say this thing? How is it the page does not burn with the ink? But it was good to me, and – Marie. Forgive me. It was his name I whispered on the skin of his thighs, when I raised my lips to kiss his fullness in my hand.

Soft and rich upon my lips, the skin, the touch, the scent of him. Nothing. Nothing, Marie, like your own soft touch, and yet I tasted him, and when he cried out at the touch of my lips, I saw you there, Marie. My God, my mind has fallen in shatters. I saw you there, by the side of my bunk, your soft white hand on his brow. How did you come there? What did you do, kissing your Tom, your lips to his brow as he cried out to us both and I tasted – his skin, his body, what I had never known before, nor thought to know in all my life. But Tom. It was Tom, good brother, beloved, with his fine strong limbs and the trembling arch of his body. It was him whose strength I came to taste, and – forgive me. Touching my lips. Sliding softly into my mouth, a thing – I know, God help me – wrong, a sin terrible, a pleasure, God, so sweet – my Tom. Strength. Beauty. His hands that touched upon my hair. His body that shuddered and clung to mine, trembling against me with his hands flung down along my back and his lips kissing my neck. Marie. It was good. God – help me – so good, as I took him to me and soothed his body, woke his spirit, brought him to that hungry need. We are but beasts, Marie. I know I shall be damned. But I trembled with the fire that it woke through me, and though my hands shook unsteady, my heart – ah, Marie, my heart was in rapture. When the moment came to us – when Tom cried out, and his body shook, and he pressed himself, God, so sweetly to my lips, in the moment of joy – I held him to me, his thighs against my body, and – ah. What words – what words can I say. The taste of him.

I might have lingered there forever. Kissing him softly. Kissing that body that had met my lips. Oh, our good Tom. How kind he was to me. He kissed my hair and shuddered against me, and murmured my name in my ears. Upon my bunk. His body to mine. Naked. Pure. Wild and tender. And his words, as he held me there – so soft, the brush of his lips on my ear.
“For our Marie.”

Tears stung me, but I fought them. I kissed his body, so wild, so yielding – gentle in his strength. All my blood woke to him, Marie, though I deny it – all of me alive to his touch and his scent and his presence. It was all I could do to tear myself from him. All I could to do come up to the deck.

And then –
Would that I had not.
Would that I had not gone. Would that I had not written. Would, God, Marie, that I had never sailed that day from Portsmouth, my eye to the soft green hills and the little dell with the wooded church and the birds singing, and the sight of you, that last, long sight of you.

Would that I were never born, never woken to draw the air of the cool green morning, walking with you and Tom out to the strand to find the cattle up to their bellies in the dewy grass, and Tom ranging wild before us, bold with his wooden sword, and I, but a boy myself that day, walking beside you, carrying your pail, and feeling with a slow, warm wonder how my hand touched against yours, and my eyes opened, and – I loved you, Marie. That day and always.

My mind. God, it will not rest. I have put this letter from me a dozen times, but it lays upon my desk, a cruelty, an accusation. His words are there upon it, though the ink has not yet shaped them. They rise up from the page, Marie, and torment me. I – forgive me. I cannot rest. I cannot think. God, I would that Tom would come to me. But he will not, Marie. He will not. And his eyes burn again until I weep for him, and I fear every moment to hear the cry of the men that will bring me the news of his death. What more is there, Marie? What more is there for either of us?

I came back to my cabin. He was there amongst my letters. All my letters that I wrote to you. He read them through, though I begged him not to. He wept, Marie. And then –

Too much. God, it is too much.

He said.

Marie. I love you.

She is dead, Richard. She is dead these three months and more. Will you not face it? She is lost to us both.

My heart. God. Marie. My heart.


The Hesperus, at sea
February 11, 1865

Can you ever forgive me, Marie, those words? I would do anything to take them back. I would do anything, God, never to have heard them. I see them every time I lift the pen and – words fail me. Word fail me entire.

And Tom. Marie. What can I do but go to him? Knowing how he shares my pain? Knowing the sight in both our eyes – your face, your sweet form, your – God help me. The churchyard. The little dell. The birds and the flowers. The blackthorn that blossoms white over your –

Over your –

Where you lie. Where I love you. I love you still. How can I, Marie? How can I release you?

But to whom else can I turn? To whom but Tom? My only. I love him the more, that I see you in him. How can I put him from me? What else is there left to me in all this world? What other heart like yours? Who knows the joys that we have known, who weeps, Marie, our sorrow – who ranged the hills and woods of our youth, our one friend, our sweet companion, in whose company we never felt ourselves burdened, nor without whom, in truth, we were ever complete? That gentle soul whose sea-gray eyes sang with the love of both of us. All that was best in us, Marie – it lives in him, who witnessed it. It lives in us together. What other way, but this, my heart – that in us both you linger. You are the love that draws us.

I dreamed, this noon, in the burning heat. I dreamed, Marie, you smiled.


The Hesperus, at sea
February 13, 1865

He is here. He lays yet upon my bunk, sweet in slumber, soft with the morning sun upon him. So long the sun has been dull, the light from the window gray with the dawn. But this morning, Marie, it touches his hair with gold.

So kind, our Tom, so sweet. I cannot tell you all the beauty of this night. But – I need not, need I? Tell you all? For in the depths of the long watches, Marie, did I not see you smile? Even – even as we lay one?

I write these words for your eyes, my angel. I know that you see me. I know you smile this morning.

I went to him. At last. Last evening, when I had done my letter to you, my sweet, my love, my never forgotten. I love you, my darling. And so I went to him.

My poor Tom. His eyes burned, the pain so deep. I have been a fool, and a selfish man. I have lingered long on the hurt done me – on the hurt that burns within me still. But it was not I alone who lost you. Poor Tom. He wanted my help so much, and I failed him in the depths of my misery. I left him alone, when most he needed my touch. But Marie – no more. No more I fear the love I bear him. For I have seen you smile.

He came to me, aching still with how I had left him, alone on all the ocean to weep his bitter loss – even the loss one who should have been his friend. What man am I, though yet your husband, to call my loss more grievous than his, who never knew a day of his life not brightened by you, a moment in which your smile had not lingered upon his? I felt, Marie, so bitterly the wrong that I had done him; when he came to me and the door was closed, I took him, and held him, and begged his forgiveness. Then our good Tom, so strong for me, and for so long a time, when all the while his poor heart broke – he clung to me, and let out his sobs, and I kissed him gently and brought him to bed, and held him to me with all my heart. I cradled him there, his golden head to my body, brother, son, comrade … oh, more than all these things, Marie. More than any of them. I kissed him, all my love on my lips, and spoke my heart to him.

“We have loved her,” I said to him – and did I not see you? Did I not see the form of you, there in the cabin, smiling softly to me? Did you come, Marie, to see us? Did you not touch your hand upon his head, where it lay against my chest? Did I not feel you then, Marie, come to me and soothe him?

“We have loved her,” I told him, my heart trembling in me, for I looked into your eyes. “Let us love one another.”

Did I feel at that moment your lips upon my brow? But when I looked, you had gone to the shadows, though I saw you there, Marie – I saw you all the long and tender night. And I loved him.

You knew, Marie. What I must do. What love I must show him. I cradled him long, letting his poor tears come, so sweet a thing, so tender, from a man whose limbs were as hard as oak. It was always his way, Tom, the gentle heart so like your own. But like himself, Marie. I saw you there, and saw what you bid me. To love your Tom. To love him true. And to love him as you did – not only for you, my heart, my dove, whom I will never forget – but for Tom himself, no shadow of you alone, but good, gentle Tom who lay by my bed when the fever took me, worn to exhaustion tending his friend who sunk in himself and did no friend’s duty to him. Kind Tom, the friend of my boyhood. There was that day, Marie – so many years ago – my hand met yours, and in that one moment, I knew I loved you. This night, Marie, my hands touched Tom. They rested there upon his head. And I knew. I loved him.

He came to me. When his grief had spent itself. When he saw how true, how honest my sorrow – and my love. When he read my remorse and my earnest pledge, never, poor Tom, to leave him again, alone to grieve in his wild mourning. No. I would bring him from that, gently, and with all my love. And you smiled. You smiled, and when our lips met – there was no holding back this time. Ah, Marie. My soul released. From torment. To Tom.

He was shy of me. I saw it in his eyes. Though my hands touched soft on his body, and my lips brushed his lips – and he answered me, in truth, with welcome – yet I saw how it troubled him, his sea-gray eyes deep and worried. He knew what I saw in him. In the words of my letters he knew how I saw you there in his eyes, his hair, his beautiful face – so calm, so strong, God, how had I never seen the beauty of him? That hurt, deep in his soft eyes – it struck my heart, Marie, and I saw what wrong I had done him. Poor Tom. In following you, my heart, my love, so far ... unto the grave, Marie. Unto the grave. In following you, I had left poor Tom, desolate on the earth, driven near to follow us both. I put all of my pity in a kiss, my sorrow for the wrong I had done him, and more – I kissed him, Marie, with all my hunger, for I saw in his eyes what he feared still – that I made of him only you, that I loved him for his hair and his eyes and his sister, and that my mind was far from him himself.

Poor aching soul. He would have come to me though it were true, I swear. His gentle touch he would have given, given himself to the last measure. Such is his love, my sweet Marie. Such his devotion to us both. But no. Good Tom. I saw him then as I never had seen him, and my heart – ah, Marie, my heart. You are within it. Forever. Forever. But Tom. I love him. And Tom is there too.

And I would show him all my love – for him, the friend of my childhood, brother of my days of happiness, and – lover in my mourning. Yes. My lover, and I to him, for so we were that night.

We came slowly to it. I kissed him long and stroked his hair, soft kisses that he returned. He trembled now, wanting, I saw, so much to believe, but frightened to put his faith in me. I took his head gently in my hands, drew him to my lips, and kissed him long and murmured his name, his own name, again and again. I gave him, softly, between my kisses, my plea for forgiveness – my sorrow for the wrong I had done him. I swore never to leave him again – not in the flesh, not in the spirit. I swore, Marie – and now I know that I need no forgiveness – that I would come back to him, not spend my days in my heart kneeling by the side of your grave. There was comfort there, comfort and oblivion in equal measure – but I have my Tom now, and I know how he needs me. I do my duty to him – but ah, Marie, it is pleasure.

It was strange. So strange, I have no words for it. What we did that night. But you saw, I know. How we kissed. How we touched. Body to body, naked on my bunk. How his eyes met mine, troubled still, pleading that I would come back to him. Oh, how I longed to bring him peace, so much so that I – did not prevent him. This time. Did not. God. How his lips closed upon me. I was glad – so glad. His lips. For an instant, Marie, I saw you – it is true. As you were that night, when shaking through my body I lay quivering under your touch, and you kissed me in that way I had never known before. Your lips. Ah, God. Yes. That night came back to me.

But I opened my eyes to him, Marie. I looked upon our sweet Tom’s face, his eyes to mine, pained, aching, longing only for some little sign, some tiny gesture that he did more than fill your place for a moment’s release. Ah, Tom. Never that. Never that at all. I touched him, all my love put in my hands, and his eyes closed as I stroked his cheek, and his lips – ah, God, his lips drove me to madness. The soft stroke of his tongue, Marie, so gentle, shy, and hesitant that I knew what we gave each other this night – both of us shorn as clean and shy as lambs in the field, all new before us, bright in the instant, shining, oh, shining. My soul. For Tom. He took me in his tender mouth, so soft and warm, so close about me – I shuddered and clung to him, and to his ears I sobbed his name, low and shaking, as through my body the adoration ran. Wild. Hard. Aching. Ah, God, and ecstasy at once. I clung to him and kissed him through the pulse and wild thrill of my body.

Then he grew less shy of me, Marie – less fearful that I could not love him. Ah, my poor Tom – how did I put that doubt in your mind? But his eyes began to soften at last, to shine behind the sorrow that had clung there so long, my God, how had I left him to sorrow so long? I kissed him, Marie – what taste there was upon his lips, salt, strong, my own, his taste and mine together, and I kissed his lips with a whisper of his name. The soft answer in his eyes – the grateful light that rose and burned there, the aching relief, that I answered him at last – oh, Marie. How I felt it then. The love of him, and how he had suffered for it, these long months when I sank within myself. I kissed him again, and put my hands to him, until he trembled and groaned and pressed into them, and cried out near to breaking.

“I love her still,” was what he cried, pressed to my body in that aching moment, and I held him, and kissed him close, and said nothing of his tears. I knew what he told me– that he loved me more for that he saw your touch upon me – for that he followed the path of your hands on my body, and took to him the flesh that had once been your own. And was – and was, Marie. Was yours still in heart, only loving you more, that we loved you in each other.

This last offering I made him. This thing of love together. This one thing between us two – that was never given between us, Marie. This love that Tom, sweet Tom alone, could have of my body. This I gave. This I desired. This I brought to him.

When I kissed his lips and touched his straight, strong length – when I trembled there, for God – never, never. Never had this thing done, nor ever thought to do. But I swear, Marie, it is done. When I met his eyes and drew him softly to me, he shuddered. It frightened us both. Were we men still? Were we sinners? Were we true to you, Marie, or to each other? We trembled long, and he kissed me, kissed me gently. I, the oldest of us, ever in the lead, ever the first to order our days – I lay down beneath him and at last let him soothe me, comfort my body, cradle me like a child in the strength of his arms. The brush of his lips, the fall of his hair where he stooped upon me – God, Marie, it was heaven. And I saw that moment – as you came there, out from the shadows, and put your hand upon his back, and smiled soft into my eyes – what it was you asked of me. My angel. It was not to comfort Tom alone that you brought him to me. How did I never see it? I thought you meant me to save him, and with all my heart, I would. But, ah, Marie – you saved me as well, and brought me safely home. God bless you. God rest your soul, for Tom, sweet Tom, has brought rest to mine.

He came so softly upon me Marie, but strong – God, so strong. Gentle as ever your hands were, but so good in his strength. His taut hard chest. His powerful body, kind but hungry, that arched and stroked and moved against me until I cried out beneath him. His touch found me, found and caressed, touched and lingered, learning my body, learning the way – oh, Marie. How can you be so like and so beautiful? His touch, gentle, your touch the night of our wedding, his touch this night we were brought together, your hand so cool upon my brow, your hand, I felt it there at last, soothing, comforting, God, Marie, Marie – ah, Tom! He touched so gently there, was hardly felt, his strength, and stroked, gentle and warm, hard and smooth, all upon my tender skin. Then he lay close, close down upon me, groaned soft and kissed my body, and called me low by my name, with all his love, and came at last into me.

What words. What words. Oh, joy. Bliss. Ecstasy. Pain forgotten. No thought of fear. Only Tom, Tom at last come to me, filling the throbbing ache of my body until I sobbed to feel him. God, Tom, heart, friend, love, hungry lover close upon me; I cried out as he panted desperate, pressing home his wild love until I begged and shook again. He sank deep, gasping; took me in hand and touched, swift, strong, brought me to sobbing, brought me there with him until he shuddered within me, and I with him, crying out, again in the darkness. All was one, all touch, all love, all tenderness, and I swear Marie – he saw you there, that last moment, your soft white palm upon my brow, your hand outstretched to touch his cheek. We saw you, both – God, cried out, and yearned to you, who came to us. Your smile, Marie. It aches into my heart, but God – the gift you gave us. That final gift. Your love and blessing.

He stirs. So sweetly. I love you Marie, and I go to him.

Your Richard


Lisbon
February 16, 1865

I write these lines, my sweet Marie, as I await his coming. What tremor comes upon me now with thought of his body brought to mine – I hardly know how to say.

He comes to me this night, Marie. This night and every night. What peace. What peace sings in my soul, at last, when I lay down with Tom. Waking to the scent of his body. My lips to his skin in the still watches of the night. His limbs warm against my own, the low, sweet draw of his breath, beauty to me, now and always.

I see now, Marie, what brought you to my deck. What set you to walk uneasy on the boards at midnight. Forgive me, darling. My torment was your own. I longed to hold you to this earth. Ah, how I longed to keep you. But – God, the words are pain still. Pain deep but sweet, Marie. Sweet in your memory. I begin – to let you go. Your soul to rise. And I will see you on that day when the troubles of the earth fall away from me.

And Tom. Tom will come to us. And we will rejoice, we three together – we three with but one spirit, that shall never be broken again. We will come to you, Marie, and your eyes will light upon us, and all love and tenderness forever be ours.

You will not come again. I know it in my heart. Three nights past now, I have had no dream – no dream but this, that I woke in my cabin and found Tom there with me, his body made my own, his strength and easy power still gentle to me, to me alone, beloved, oh, and loving so. Loving the touch of him, his feel upon me, the scent of his skin, Tom here, Tom always.

You came to bring me back to him. You came to bring him unto me. You came to slake the mourning that laid us both near unto death, and give again into our lives a hope, a light, a promise. I love you. I love you both with all my heart.

And now, Marie. Though I ache, yet I know the time is upon me. Tom comes again this night. His eyes are warm. The sorrow that we both have felt mayhap will never leave us; I pray it does not, for from night to night, not troubling you in your endless sleep, I would dream of you, now and again – dream as men do, not from uneasy graves or misery held close too long, but from love, and tenderness, and remembrance. I would have us dream of you together, as we knelt last night, Marie, with your picture before us, and prayed for your soul – and gave you thanks. Our thanks, Marie, for this last gift of your loving heart. You are forever with us.

And so I shall put my pen aside. Marie. I write this once and always. I love you. My heart is yours. And now I know that you will love it only more, for finding Tom within it.

No words, Marie. No more words needed. I put them from me. Do you see my heart? How it beats for you, and for Tom, and for all of life that I begin, at last, to wake to?

We come upon a distant shore. Our business holds us yet some weeks. But soon Marie, we return to Portsmouth. We will come back to the little dell, to the church that stands amid the oaks, when April is come and the blackthorn is blooming. We will come to the green sward of the church, to a gentle bed where an angel lies dreaming, and there beneath the white bloom’s fall, that lies like tender snow upon the grass – there we shall bury these pages, Marie, to lie forever in your care.

Our hearts, Marie. We love you.

Richard

Thomas

******************************************

Questions from the author:

1) Readers of earlier drafts found the beginning a bit confusing in terms of who the speaker was, what rank/role he and Tom had on the ship, where the ship was, and how Richard was related to Marie. Are these coming through clearly enough while remaining within the fictional framework of letters that someone might actually write?

2) Did the revelation following Tom's discovery of the letters come together quickly enough? Are ther any other ways of structuring or handling this that might help reduce reader confusion?

3) What's your impression of Tom? Is he coming across as a real and reasonably consistant person? Does Richard appear to desire him as himself as well as a representative of Marie?

4) I know I need to whack my prose back with a Bushhog. Don't laugh, but this *is* a cut-down version. Where can it be cut back more to attain a leaner but still emotionally powerful style?

Of course, shred away at anything else that strikes you

Shanglan

 

[carsonshepherd]

How do I love this story? Let me count the ways.
-The first paragraph is MUCH improved. In fact the writing throughout is so much more clear. Finding the trees in the forest, you are!

I should send these letters to you. It is selfish that I do not. But all I have of you for now is my pen and the ink upon this paper. You will forgive me, Marie, I know, if I keep them some little while longer. You will know all the better how I love you when you can read them at last.

Wonderful. Lots of really great stuff here.

For there is nothing in Tom’s gaze, no bright light of sorrow and despair, that I have not seen each morning in the glass.

Really loving this, much better!

We laid you gentle on the green sward and scattered the blossoms on your body.

Very good foreshadowing here. Seems to fit very nicely in with the dreams without screaming "Foreshadow!"

Marie. I found you pacing the deck. I knew you by your hair and the gown you wore when last I saw you. What peace there was upon you then – but you walk my deck uneasy.

This section is improved also, but I think it could be better if you added more detail, more a sense of desperate longing and shock when he sees her; now, it's kinda like, "Hey, there's Marie."

Warm. Strong. Smooth and hard, like the handle of an axe wrought fresh from the ashwood. Taut and heavy, grateful to the touch – my God, how can I say this thing? How is it the page does not burn with the ink? But it was good to me, and – Marie. Forgive me. It was his name I whispered on the skin of his thighs, when I raised my lips to kiss his fullness in my hand.

<Sigh of relief> Excellent. I'm feeling this. I loved this story from the beginning but I think you've nailed it this time (Hee hee).

And I would show him all my love – for him, the friend of my childhood, brother of my days of happiness, and – lover in my mourning. Yes. My lover, and I to him, for so we were that night.

Uhhh... not liking this one so much. May need to whack that one.

This one thing between us two – that was never given between us, Marie.

Here's another question: How could this be given between them? Instead of "Was never given", might be stronger to say "Could never be given between us?" I dunno, just a thought.

God, Marie, Marie – ah, Tom!

Finally, he goes to calling out for Tom! Like this a lot.

All in all this was improved about a hundred times from the draft I read before. Inverted, the diction is not! Okay, now I'll answer your numbered questions.

 

[carsonshepherd]

1. Yes, I get a much clearer picture of who the characters are. Those issues have been resolved, but new readers can clarify it better, since I already knew. But you worked the explanations in well.

2. I was better on his finding the letters and why he was sobbing over them. I liked it before.... I was just impatiently trying to figure out what was going on.

3. Tom comes across much better. All the stuff I begged for mercy on is thankfully gone, and because of that, I believed Richard desired him for himself and not just because of Marie.

4. Already addressed this some in the above post. The stuff I mentioned before has been successfully whacked.

Nice. Can't wait to read what other people say about it.

 

[smoochypig]

In the interests of public comment I'm going to include a few comments I've made privately too. Since there is a, to borrow a phrase, foreshadowing - I'm going to leave specific comments about this to later so others get a chance to read the story first.

I did very much like the way the story unfolded. I had read about halfway when I first made comment and those should have shown that I had absolutely no idea what was to come. I wouldn't touch the beginning at all (any more?). Yes, I had some abguity about why Tom and Richard were together and led to all kinds of emotional, and more kinky reasoning why that might be. Which made the ending even more gripping as I suddenly realised how much I'd been drawn into reading the story that I hadn't even been looking for the signs. This was really well done.

I did find the references to Marie made by Tom to be a little unclear. At times it's obvious that he's thinking of what Marie would have liked and not personifying Marie directly in Richard. But particularly where we switch from Richard to Tom with them sharing the same sentiments it does suggest something a little more taboo. That said, I did really get an empathy for how Richard feels and acts and why. The niggle above is also minor enough that it doesn't really hinder what unfolds.

As to the intimacy between the two; I found the first occassion far more arousing than the second. It (the first) invoked more sensuous imagery and a feeling of exploration shared between them. It justified the transgression of the conventional relationship between them and to me, made it believable why Richard would interact with Tom in such a way. With some surprise I found myself rather enjoying the sex scene. I've not often sought out gay sex stories but maybe I should

On the second occassion, coupled with the more notable switch into narrative than as a letter to Marie, it feels more like an obligatory gay romp. The focus is more on visual cues to raise the passion and while fragments of it were indeed quite hot, some of the descriptions didn't quite make me shiver and go "oooh". Bear in mind though, that I've no gay experience to draw on so it's probably only natural that I don't get the same result from that than I would say if you were describing a female's visual instead.

(to cite, "hard taut chest" - sounds like a muscleman magazine rather than your normal male acquaintance. "hard like an axe handle". not a parallel that springs to mind unless I would imagine you have a habit of self gratification with axe handles - I'm sure there is a story on literotica that is about that mind )


I mentioned privately about my own taste for the - I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with the correct terms - 'broken' phrases in the latter half of the letters. The interjections of Marie, and God were a little too frequent for my liking. Sometimes I found that quite powerful, evocative phrases had been interrupted mid flow for the sake of trying to add more description into the line. For example, "how his eyes met mine, troubled still, pleading that I would come back to him"

Without the "troubled still" its much more simple I must admit, but I can immerse myself into the story and picture the eyes pleading. The troubled still makes me stop and suspend that while I figure out is it his eyes, or Richards eyes that are 'still troubled'. This isn't the best case I can recall but the one I can find looking through quickly.

There is so much more I could say, and indeed did in private review - but I think the way you wound up the letters was also quite moving. I loved how he could now move beyond his grief for Marie. That he has come to terms with not only his loss, but with his love for Tom and is not ashamed of it. I'm sure there is a dozen interpretations of how he seems to be asking Marie's approval for it, but myself I am content to enjoy Richard's relief and peace.

I note too a 'circular' reference to the 'green sward of the church, to a gentle bed' that we see before we learn the truth. I'm sure this is deliberate but perhaps not, but with the hindsight of having read the story (3 times now its like a playful pat for those like myself, who totally failed to see what was being foretold the first time through!

My issues with the letter/narrative form and 'exclamations' aside, I enjoyed this. An emotional piece, with a surprisingly (for me) erotic encounter too. Congratulations too on the research - for all the engineer in me and my attempts to find that loophole, the setting, pacing and accuracy are believable throughout.

Good work

 

[smoochypig]

And because I foolishly forgot to respond directly to the questions you asked before spouting ...

1. Readers of earlier drafts found the beginning a bit confusing in terms of who the speaker was, what rank/role he and Tom had on the ship, where the ship was, and how Richard was related to Marie.

Perfectly clear who and what role/relationship. The only curiosity I had was exactly the reason why Richard was with Tom. With the comment on stealing Richard from Marie it did rather sound more 'lover' oriented already so I was expecting there to be a gay relationship. (although as my private comments before I found out the reality suggest, I had an entirely different romp with the crew in mind! )

2) Did the revelation following Tom's discovery of the letters come together quickly enough?

Timing was fine for me. I loved the pace of it - I still am not 100% clear on the order of events on that particular day, but I still understood what was intended so I admit, on the first reading I didn't really pick up that the order or structure of this was the really important part of the story. I don't yet know how to handle that day differently though.

3) What's your impression of Tom? Is he coming across as a real and reasonably consistant person? Does Richard appear to desire him as himself as well as a representative of Marie?

.

I was a little confused when in one letter he is distant and removed, and in another seemingly brash and irresponsible. I understand now it was a madness and resignation within him - but I think that shift from one to the other left me more confused whether I had interpreted the first correctly rather than a real passage and transition over time.

As to whether Tom loved Richard for himself. Yes - that's fine although some of the word choices were perhaps a little ambigious if read in isolation. (as I marked up )

4) I know I need to whack my prose back with a Bushhog. ...Where can it be cut back more to attain a leaner but still emotionally powerful style?

In summary I'd target the repetition ("sweet to me, sweet was the ..." ; "And Tom. Tom..."; "poor tom.... poor tom". "I shudder... I shudder"; "would that I had... " and of course "God. God. and A(agh) God".

It's not that these in themselves are wrong and they do give a great insight into Richards mental distress which I appreciate is exactly why they are there. It's that it makes me feel like the moment is being rewound and replayed over and over when it is (imho) already clear he is confused and tormented. I'd use fewer instances and trust the reader to sustain the image longer.

I think you do a great job of setting the stage, the reasons and why things are happening but need to step back a little sooner and concentrate on your goal.

Interestingly though, that does raise a question. Is the goal to portray the love and emotion or a tale of conflict ?. It may simply be a matter of audience then, since Richard's (and Tom's) turmoil is already well written and easy to empathise with.

 

[Varian P]

I adore this story. It is, as literature can sometimes be, a story which works on multiple levels, and can be enjoyed from any of those different perspectives, and becomes something of special depth and complexity when they are taken together. I don’t claim to have read much erotica, but from my admittedly limited experience this strikes me as a rare piece which goes far beyond using some certain plot just to facilitate the sex. The sex is beautiful and difficult and intimately related to everything else in the story, and the story, in turn, is richer and more poignant for the sex. Though the plot certainly depends on the sex, if that were not the case, this piece is of a quality that it would be a worthwhile read even without the erotic element. And that’s the kind of erotica I enjoy most, by far.

And the eroticism? Deliciously hot, but with a sweet earnestness that prevents the sex from ever seeming pornographic--not to say I don't enjoy the pornographic approach, too, but I'm impressed with how you get to me without going there. You do a lovely job of giving me all the images, the sensations, the reactions without ever getting anatomical.

You’ve succeeded nicely in purging the trite nostalgic imagery of the earlier draft and putting in details that feel more personal to the characters and their story.

1) Readers of earlier drafts found the beginning a bit confusing in terms of who the speaker was, what rank/role he and Tom had on the ship, where the ship was, and how Richard was related to Marie. Are these coming through clearly enough while remaining within the fictional framework of letters that someone might actually write?

I think you’ve made it very clear, now, that Richard is the captain, Tom his cabin boy, and the relationships between Tom, Richard, and Marie. I’m still fuzzy on whether they all live/d in Portsmouth, or somewhere inland. I’m also still confused as to whether or not Tom usually shares Richard’s cabin, as his cabin boy, since in the first letter we hear of Richard waking to see Tom on his cot, but later it is implied that maybe Tom sleeps below deck and Richard above? Also there are references, later, to Tom coming to Richard’s cabin.

2) Did the revelation following Tom's discovery of the letters come together quickly enough? Are there any other ways of structuring or handling this that might help reduce reader confusion?

This was executed with nice clarity—I think you’ve eliminated the confusion that was there in the earlier draft.

3) What's your impression of Tom? Is he coming across as a real and reasonably consistant person? Does Richard appear to desire him as himself as well as a representative of Marie?

I don’t know, now, if it’s because I’ve read this story a few times, or whether its little things you’ve changed, but Tom seems much less of a milquetoast to me now, and more of a distinct individual. He seems more brooding/angry/desperate in his impulsive chasing after the rope, his solitude, and his refusal to go out to enjoy the town, whereas before I had more of an impression of a sulky lovelorn teenager. There is no doubt in my mind, by the end, that Richard loves Tom for himself, though the three of them are all twined up beautifully and inextricably for me—personally I’d hate to see that altered.

4) I know I need to whack my prose back with a Bushhog. Don't laugh, but this *is* a cut-down version. Where can it be cut back more to attain a leaner but still emotionally powerful style?

I tried to address this inline in an email--I hope you find it helpful.


-Varian

 

[cloudy]

I'm truly speechless! This story is wonderful! I was completely drawn into the world you created, and the language seemed so true to that time.

1) Readers of earlier drafts found the beginning a bit confusing in terms of who the speaker was, what rank/role he and Tom had on the ship, where the ship was, and how Richard was related to Marie. Are these coming through clearly enough while remaining within the fictional framework of letters that someone might actually write?

I was just slightly confused with the first paragraph when you wrote: "This week past has been a torment to me and to your brother. Tom feels it as much as I do, this frustration of standing idle in port when we might have lingered longer by your side." - I wasn't positive that the brother and Tom were the same person, but I think it works because it becomes abundantly clear very quickly.

2) Did the revelation following Tom's discovery of the letters come together quickly enough? Are there any other ways of structuring or handling this that might help reduce reader confusion?

I was pretty much sure that Marie was dead before you mentioned it, but there was a line that had me looking for revelation for awhile: "You know what it was he said. Do not make me say it. " After reading the entire story, I'm pretty sure that you're referencing the fact that she's dead, but I'm still not positive.

3) What's your impression of Tom? Is he coming across as a real and reasonably consistant person? Does Richard appear to desire him as himself as well as a representative of Marie?

Tom seems to be an enigma. Of course, there's only so much someone would write about another person that is familiar to both the writer of the letter, and the one who'll be receiving it. At first, Richard seems to be turning to Tom simply because of who he is, but later the emotions seem to become related to Tom, himself. I would like to see Tom fleshed out a little more, but it works exactly the way it is.

4) I know I need to whack my prose back with a Bushhog. Don't laugh, but this *is* a cut-down version. Where can it be cut back more to attain a leaner but still emotionally powerful style?

I don't think you need to cut it back at all - in my amateur opinion. The language you usually see in letters from that time is a little more flowery and "prosey" than that we use today. BTW - I think you captured that perfectly.

The foreshadowing you used was enough to make me start to wonder if Marie was alive fairly early, but not heavy enough to spoil it - excellent. The only thing I would add is that at the beginning of the story you write: "How sorry I was to take him from you. Can you forgive me that? I could see no other way." - I'm still a little confused about this. Could see no other way for what?

Overall, I like this story very much! It grabbed me right from the beginning, and I'm very impressed at how you were able to capture the feeling of those times.

 

[BlackShanglan]

Thanks hugely for all of the comments so far, and for the wonderful suggestions I've gotten for the diction, especially in the latter half - Varian and Pig, you are my heroes, and I appreciate all of the time you took teasing out my excessive repetition - there is certainly plenty of it.

From Varian:

I don’t know, now, if it’s because I’ve read this story a few times, or whether its little things you’ve changed, but Tom seems much less of a milquetoast to me now, and more of a distinct individual.

Yee ha Proof that my obsession with re-writing individual words does occasionally work. I did a run-through designed specifically to give Tom a bit more backbone. I think that once I incorporate Pig's advice to back off on the "poor Tom" business near the end, he'll be a much better character than he was first draft.

I keep hemming and hawing on the sex scenes and on what Pig presciently denotes as the switching between letter and narrative form - especially as those things are intertwined. On the one hand, I want the eroticism to come through; on the other, I want to preserve at least a vestige of the sense that these are letters, or at least, something like a journal / letter / confession combination that still works as something a person might conceivably write.

Dunno. What do the rest of you think about cutting back detail in the sex scenes? Part of me feels like Richard wants to write if only because he's having this major homoerotic awakening and he's stunned and a little entranced by it, and sort of running it over and over in his mind. On the other hand, I think Pig has a really good point that this strains both the sense of a letter (or similar) format and the quiet eroticism of the kiss as it gets more overtly physical. Hmmmm. Could this story survive cutting back the sex? (Feel free to say "yes but not on Literotica").

I think you’ve made it very clear, now, that Richard is the captain, Tom his cabin boy ...

Hmmm. I think I actually need to clarify further then. Actually, Tom is too old for a cabin boy and I am trying to make him a deck hand. Back to that "what the audience wants or needs to know" vs. "what he would write in a letter to someone who already knows it" battle.

From Cloudy:

I was pretty much sure that Marie was dead before you mentioned it, but there was a line that had me looking for revelation for awhile: "You know what it was he said. Do not make me say it. " After reading the entire story, I'm pretty sure that you're referencing the fact that she's dead, but I'm still not positive.

That is exactly the issue that is giving trouble. Where it gets explained now - and it is Tom saying that she's dead - it's a couple of pages from the place where Richard asks her not to make him say it. My problem with that section is in timing. Basically, the "real life" timing is:

1) Richard and Tom spend the night together - evening of Feb 8.
2) They wake in the morning (Feb. 9) and have a sexual encounter.
3) Richard goes up on deck.
4) Tom later goes to his cabin (same day, Feb 9) and finds his letters.
5) Richard walks in on Tom reading his letters.
6) Richard basically breaks down, in the course of which he writes to Marie about Tom finding the letters (letter of Feb. 9)
7) Richard spends the next day getting to grips and eventually writes a letter describing more fully the events of the 8th (letter of Feb. 10)

The letters report the events in a disjointed order - Richard writes a brief one saying that Tom has found his letters, then goes back and describes what happened before the letters were found. This also puts distance between Richard refusing to repeat Tom's words and eventually admitting them, which can lead to the reader feeling confused.

My difficulty here is that the other options also have problems. Either I have to drop the sexual encounter entirely - which I felt made the pacing of the last one rather abrupt and unlikely - or Richard, in a state of mental breakdown, sits down and calmly describes the sexual encounter before getting to the finding of the letters. I guess I could have him write in the afternoon and have Tom find the letters in the evening - but will there be too little tension, rather than too much, if the question of what Tom said is followed instantly with the answer?

I am in a muddle on that one, and no doubt. But thank you all for helping me with it! The comments and feedback have been fabulous. I feel already that this story will be much, much stronger when it it posted.

Shanglan

 

[Lying Eyes]

1) Readers of earlier drafts found the beginning a bit confusing in terms of who the speaker was, what rank/role he and Tom had on the ship, where the ship was, and how Richard was related to Marie. Are these coming through clearly enough while remaining within the fictional framework of letters that someone might actually write?

One thing I wasn't sure about was Tom's and Marie's relationship. Early on I thought they were in some sort of incestous relationship and Richard stole her "lover" and brother.

On a technical point I could be wrong here but it seems way too long for a ship to sail from England to Spain/La Caruna to Lisbon/Portugal. Even in the 1800's I would guess a trip by ship even if it was hindered by storms and had to stop in Spain for a few days would take less time then over a month. Its not that far in distance between Portugal/England. Also by the 1850's steam ships were in use, I don't know how common they were but it would make the trip even faster.

2) Did the revelation following Tom's discovery of the letters come together quickly enough? Are ther any other ways of structuring or handling this that might help reduce reader confusion?

The fact that Marie is dead was not confusing and I was expecting it.

3) What's your impression of Tom? Is he coming across as a real and reasonably consistant person? Does Richard appear to desire him as himself as well as a representative of Marie?

Tom comes off as an inocent pure character. Richard seems to only want him because he reminds him of Marie but later he desires him also.

4) I know I need to whack my prose back with a Bushhog. Don't laugh, but this *is* a cut-down version. Where can it be cut back more to attain a leaner but still emotionally powerful style?

Woah, this was already cut down?! At one point it really started draging for me as I thought to myself if the ship was not going to Lisbon but to China... Though gay male stories are not my thing so that may have been partialy the reason why I wanted it o finish sooner.

I think you can cut a bit about the stop over in Spain.


All in all I was quite impressed by this piece. A know their are alot of lesbian stories with a romantic tone and set in a historical setting but I wasn't expecting it for a gay male tale. This is written in such a manner that I think calling it literature rather then an erotic story would be more fitting. This might be so unique in the gay male genre stories that it might not recieve alot of readers but those that do take the time to look at the full piece will probably really appreciate the tale you woven.

 

[Black Tulip]

BlackShanglan,

I'm not sure I can contribute anything useful, but I'll give you my thoughts. Feel free to toss them to the wind.

I read your story twice, because the first time I got kind of irritated near the end and I didn't finish it. I'll try to explain why later on.

At first I thought Richard was the bosun, but that was cleared up pretty soon and no problem in enjoying the story, I think.

There is some confusion to where everybody is sleeping, but that could be just me. Richard starts with saying he didn't want to wake Tom who was quiet on his cot. That can't have been below decks? Then follows this part:

We spent this last night ashore, for I know it will be hard for Tom in the close quarters below decks. I wanted to spare him as long as I could. But he will make a good sailor. He is brave and faces his duty well, though I know it pains him to leave you. With luck, he will rise soon to be an officer, and find himself again in quarters somewhat kinder.

When I started reading this story I had no idea what to expect as I have not yet read any other story by you. I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that it were letters. I liked that and I think you did a very good job.

What particularly caught my attention is the way the sentences change with the change in drama. (Is this clear?) The prose gets kind of breathless near the climax of the story.

I got carried away by wanting to know what was going on. You had me fooled or I am really very gullible. I thought the "thing" in the background would be a threesome with brother, sister and husband. Because you mention taking Tom away from "her".

I only started to suspect Marie was dead when you mentioned

You know what it was he said. Do not make me say it.

I never read a gay story before, so I don't know if I can make a useful comment on that particular element. I thought it was very tender, very loving and I believed the way Richard was putting to paper his wonderment, awe, excitement with this new feelings and at the same time the realization and the struggle that it shouldn't be, at least in his mind.

On second reading I found I'd had enough after Richard comes more or less to terms with the fact he loves Tom.
The last letter, your closure is too much for me. On the other hand, I realize you need something like that to finish it, but for me the tension was gone.
Sorry, I don't have a solution, only a complaint.

I spotted a few minor typo's, so I think you need to go through it merely looking for small misspellings, forgotten words etc.

Now for your questions:

Questions from the author:

1) Readers of earlier drafts found the beginning a bit confusing in terms of who the speaker was, what rank/role he and Tom had on the ship, where the ship was, and how Richard was related to Marie. Are these coming through clearly enough while remaining within the fictional framework of letters that someone might actually write?

I was a bit unsure, not confused, no problem as far as I am concerned. It's no problem not knowing everything right away.

2) Did the revelation following Tom's discovery of the letters come together quickly enough? Are ther any other ways of structuring or handling this that might help reduce reader confusion?

Not necessary to me. I could follow this pretty well, you stepping back to relate more fully what had happened.

3) What's your impression of Tom? Is he coming across as a real and reasonably consistant person? Does Richard appear to desire him as himself as well as a representative of Marie?

Yes, it's clear that Tom gradually steps out of Marie's shadow. You could maybe pay a little more attention to the fact that Tom at one point is seeking danger, flirting with death? Coming back from that mood because Richard needs him?
I liked this description very much:

But there is something in his eyes, Marie. He looked upon death last night, and he was not afraid. It was not courage alone. It was … emptiness. A hollow place.

4) I know I need to whack my prose back with a Bushhog. Don't laugh, but this *is* a cut-down version. Where can it be cut back more to attain a leaner but still emotionally powerful style?

I really don't feel qualified to answer that question. Besides, I have no clue what a Bushhog is. LOL

Please remember, this is merely my opinion and I only hope you can use some of it.

 

[carsonshepherd]

really don't feel qualified to answer that question. Besides, I have no clue what a Bushhog is. LOL

Black Tulip, a BushHog is a piece of small equipment, somewhat like a tractor, that's used to cut back heavy brush, overgrown weeds, etc.

For this story, I think that now a machete will be sufficient.

 

[BlackShanglan]

There is some confusion to where everybody is sleeping, but that could be just me. Richard starts with saying he didn't want to wake Tom who was quiet on his cot. That can't have been below decks?

This is one of those points in the text that I keep coming back to over and over. I so want to keep the early image of Richard dreaming of Marie and waking up to see Tom ... and I am so *not* doing it right *laugh* I tried indicating in the header of the letter that they were sleeping in a room in a pub - last night on land sort of thing - clearly that is not working. I am starting to think that I may just have to give up and lose this image, however much I like it, because it has yet to make sense plot-wise to anyone but me.

On second reading I found I'd had enough after Richard comes more or less to terms with the fact he loves Tom.
The last letter, your closure is too much for me. On the other hand, I realize you need something like that to finish it, but for me the tension was gone.
Sorry, I don't have a solution, only a complaint.

No problem, identifying an issue is the first step to solving it. Let me ask this: would it be better to address the content of the last letter (resolution, thoughts of taking his letters back to Marie) by combining it with a cut-down version of the second-to-last letter, or are you saying it would strike you better just jettisoning the last letter altogether?

Many many thanks for your helpful comments!

Shanglan

 

[Pure]

Hi Black,

You've done a lot of excellent writing, and crafted a fine story, and I won't bother recapping some points and topics already discussed. So these are some scattered thoughts that might be of use. Or might not.

Here are my own points.

I. Minor cavils of grammar:

when I lay my head in your lap

They lay me in my bunk

when I lay down with Tom.


II.What interested me was the shift in writing style, from ship's log to Dylan Thomas with a touch of Poe.

To check for precursors, and early hints, in the story, of the later writing gifts, I looked at the early lyric passages, and found two, A. and C. that work rather nicely. I could see a captain writing them.

I quote B. as an example of the opposite style, the factual ship's log.

D. shows you in full flight, with wonderful phrases like
both of us shorn as clean and shy as lambs in the field.


So, in a way, my issue is the opposite of that of Lying Eyes. This is a six week trip. What exactly unleashes the poet? Or is he already one? The latter makes more sense. (This is a problem of fine writers doing first person stories involving practical, not necessarily educated persons.)

I know you say Richard is captain, but the story, in places, makes it sound more like two officers (one nearby on a cot), one a gifted poet doing a stint at sea. That would be my idea of what fits best. Mostly I do _not_ have a sense of Richard captaining. (Unless he's the 'sensitive' John Kerry' type of captain.) He says things like 'the ship sails from X' not "I took the ship to sea, from X."

I know you make Tom one of the 'men,' and this goes somewhat against what appear to be his fine qualities and subtlety. It's also a stretch to envision mere minor ribbing for hanging out and sleeping with the captain, if you're one of the 'men'.

It's another stretch that the three were all playmates, but later one is a captain and the other so inexperienced. I.e., one might expect a ten year gap, when in fact it sounds like less than five.

{Tom's talk doesn't figure much, so it's hard to tell his depth and sophistication, but my *impression is that he's not meant to be a handsome, but basically simple soul. E.g., he seems drawn into the complexities of the Marie surrogacy; he's not just Marie's simple innocent bro getting seduced at sea.}

Among the alternatives. R is a gifted writer to begin with. OR, the voyage and period of the letters is much longer, so that the character really has a chance to deepen, and master his poetic streak and craft. (Perhaps some of the letters could be at significant gaps in time. The action is very compressed. In one way that makes sense, but where does the writing talent come from.)

III. I believe one poster had some issues about the final letter. It's pretty lush, so, for fun, I had a go at abridging it. Sorry if my crude machete cut too much of the sacred flesh, but it's just to give you an idea of trimming the shrubbery, as you mentioned. {I also made some small changes to make the thing flow in its shortened form, and for conciseness.} The word count is reduced to 446 from 650-- about a third.

Similes and metaphors just rush out in abundance, and I'd like to see a more concise wrap up. Its central idea is fairly simple: Marie, having brought them together, is now in heaven; and, in spirit, the three are forever bound in love.
-----

I think the story is fine and movingly told, so the above points may only reflect my missing some of your intricacies. Maybe they can be ignored.

Good luck with it.

J.



====
A.1-13
I would have given any thing to hold that farm for you, those fields where you ran barefoot, the stables where we played as children, the deep pond where you came – yes, I saw you, little vixen – to peep on Tom and I when we swam. I have loved that home and that little valley with a love fierce and wild, for they gave me all that was dear to me. I cannot say what it cost me to leave them, and it wrung my heart to take Tom as well. But now we must all seek our fortunes, and go abroad upon the world.
=======
1-16
B. The storm was unlooked-for, rising fast. It caught us with canvas up and we lost the topmast before we could take in sail. We limp now toward the Spanish coast, hoping to make La Coruña. We have lost much of our water with barrels sprung in the hold, but no men, thank God. We shall make port safe enough, my love, but we are slowed in our journey. This weighs down both our hearts, Tom’s and mine, for we know that it draws you further from us. Yet we comfort each other, and are of good courage.

And of courage is Tom made. He was our champion this storm. I tell you because he will never say it himself. There are men here owe their lives to him. He has taken some taunting for his quiet ways and his close company with his captain. But he hears no taunting now. He is gone to sit the evening with them, drinking rum and hearing their boisterous tales. Think kindly of him, Marie; the company will cheer him, and I will bring him home to you the same good, kind Tom he has always been.

====
C.1-18 We were down by the hedgerow, where the orchard meets the pond, that day you first kissed my lips and made my heart leap like a hare. Have I ever told you truly how you moved me, just with the touch of your hand and the kiss that you gave me? I dreamed of that day, when Tom ran chasing rabbits and then blushed to come upon us. I dreamed us both again by the hedgerow, and was sorry to wake to an empty ship.
=====

D.
I touched him, all my love put in my hands, and his eyes closed as I stroked his cheek, and his lips – ah, God, his lips drove me to madness. The soft stroke of his tongue, Marie, so gentle, shy, and hesitant that I knew what we gave each other this night – both of us shorn as clean and shy as lambs in the field, all new before us, bright in the instant, shining, oh, shining. My soul. For Tom. He took me in his tender mouth, so soft and warm, so close about me – I shuddered and clung to him, and to his ears I sobbed his name, low and shaking, as through my body the adoration ran. Wild. Hard. Aching. Ah, God, and ecstasy at once. I clung to him and kissed him through the pulse and wild thrill of my body.

=====
(last. revised by pure)
Lisbon
February 16, 1865

I write these lines, my sweet Marie, as I await his coming.

He comes to me this night, Marie. This night and every night. What peace sings in my soul, at last, when I lie down with Tom. Waking to the scent of his body. My lips to his skin in the still watches of the night. His limbs warm against my own, the low, sweet draw of his breath, beauty to me.

I see, Marie, what brought you to my deck, what set you to walk uneasy on the boards at midnight. Forgive me, darling. My torment was your own. I longed to hold you to this earth, to keep you. But – God, the words, the pain deep but sweet, Marie. Sweet in your memory. I begin – to let you go. Your soul to rise. And I to see you in that time when the troubles of the earth fall away.

Tom. Tom will come to us. And we will rejoice, we three together –in but one spirit, that will never again be broken. We will come to you, Marie, and your eyes will light upon us, and all love and tenderness forever be ours.

You came to bring me back to him. You came to bring him unto me. You came to slake the mourning that laid us both near unto death, and give again into our lives a hope, a light, a promise. I love you. I love you both with all my heart.

You will not come again. I know it. Three nights past now, I have had no dream – no dream but this, that I woke in my cabin and found Tom there with me, his body made my own, my joy.

Yet the sorrow that we both have felt mayhap will never leave; I pray it does not, for from night to night, not troubling your endless sleep, I would dream of you, now and again --in love, and tenderness and remembrance. I would have us dream of you, Marie, together, as we knelt last night with your picture before us, and prayed for your soul – and gave thanks to you, forever with us.

And so I put my pen aside, Marie. We soon return to Portsmouth. We will come back to the little dell, to the church that stands amid the oaks, when April is come and the blackthorn is blooming. We will come to the green sward of the church, to a gentle bed where an angel lies dreaming, and there beneath the white bloom’s fallen like tender snow upon the grass – there, Marie, we bury these pages to lie forever in your care.

We love you.

Richard

Thomas

 

[smoochypig]

I'm so glad that I am not alone in my total failure to spot all the clues on the first, and some of them even on the second reading. I was so wrapped up in Marie as his love and picturing her as so beautiful that even when I read ...

"Tom was there, weaving garlands, and the blossoms lay like snow on your skin. We laid you gentle on the green sward and scattered the blossoms on your body. Where were you, Marie, when I dreamed of your soft white limbs? "

... I was still happily dreaming over how she would look laying there although I did wonder about Tom being quite so involved. I guess being from the great British Empire (ho ho) it seemed perfectly normal for someone to have white limbs so I never inferred anything deathly about it!

You had asked me whether to change the beginning, whether it was all clear and when I'd stopped (exactly) before the truth emerges I was thinking yeah, maybe this, maybe that should change. But now, I would not want a thing changing in the introduction. I love how the reader is allowed to hold onto their own interpretation so long. And yet, when you do reveal Marie is dead it all feels so obvious and it doesn't feel like you've been deliberately leading people astray at all. It wouldn't be anywhere near as enjoyable if it felt like we had been manipulated by only being told little bits so we couldn't figure it out. But no, it's actually all there, all delicately woven in throughout.

Wonderful.

 

[Black Tulip]

This is one of those points in the text that I keep coming back to over and over. I so want to keep the early image of Richard dreaming of Marie and waking up to see Tom ... and I am so *not* doing it right *laugh* I tried indicating in the header of the letter that they were sleeping in a room in a pub - last night on land sort of thing - clearly that is not working. I am starting to think that I may just have to give up and lose this image, however much I like it, because it has yet to make sense plot-wise to anyone but me.



No problem, identifying an issue is the first step to solving it. Let me ask this: would it be better to address the content of the last letter (resolution, thoughts of taking his letters back to Marie) by combining it with a cut-down version of the second-to-last letter, or are you saying it would strike you better just jettisoning the last letter altogether?

Many many thanks for your helpful comments!

Shanglan

Shanglan,

I'm more than happy to have a closer look at the sleeping arrangements. Am a bit busy at the moment, so I can't promise to have a go at it tonight, but I will have time over the next few days.

As for the final letter. I do not say drop it, but make it more part of the whole. As it is now, I feel like all the drama has been and all that's left is tidying it up.

Pure's attempt is a good one too, in my opinion.

Smoochy,

The same here. I merely thought, well, in that age, of course she would have been pale. LOL

 

[Pure]

Countryside piece

A piece (excerpt) by a master, of whom i'm reminded:

Hoo, there, in castle keep,
You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
The flickering runs and dive
The dingle furred deer dead!
Huloo, on plumbed bryns,
O my ruffled ring dove
In the hooting, nearly dark
With Welsh and reverent rook,
Coo rooing the woods' praise,
Who moons her blue notes from her nest
Down to the curlew herd!

Ho hullaballoing clan
Agape, with woe
In your beaks, on the gabbing capes!
Heigh, on horseback hill, jack
Whisking hare! who
Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's
Clangour as I hew and smite …

But animals thick as thieves
On God's rough tumbling grounds
(Hail to His Beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin.
Hist, in hogsback woods! The haystacked
Hollow farms in a throng
Of waters cluck and cling.
And barnroofs cockcrow war!
O kingdom of neighbours, finned
Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
Work ark and the moonshine
Drinking Noah of the bay,
With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
Only the drowned deep bells
Of sheep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every holy field.

-----
suitable kudos provide[d] to one furnishing the piece's title

 

[cloudy]

Re: Countryside piece

A piece (excerpt) by a master, of whom i'm reminded:

Hoo, there, in castle keep,
You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
The flickering runs and dive
The dingle furred deer dead!
Huloo, on plumbed bryns,
O my ruffled ring dove
In the hooting, nearly dark
With Welsh and reverent rook,
Coo rooing the woods' praise,
Who moons her blue notes from her nest
Down to the curlew herd!

Ho hullaballoing clan
Agape, with woe
In your beaks, on the gabbing capes!
Heigh, on horseback hill, jack
Whisking hare! who
Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's
Clangour as I hew and smite …

But animals thick as thieves
On God's rough tumbling grounds
(Hail to His Beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin.
Hist, in hogsback woods! The haystacked
Hollow farms in a throng
Of waters cluck and cling.
And barnroofs cockcrow war!
O kingdom of neighbours, finned
Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
Work ark and the moonshine
Drinking Noah of the bay,
With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
Only the drowned deep bells
Of sheep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every holy field.

-----
suitable kudos provide to one furnishing the piece's title

Author's Prologue, by Dylan Thomas

 

[BlackShanglan]

Must be doing something right if Dylan Thomas is cropping up

Shanglan

 

[Black Tulip]

Nah, we're just stroking your feathers.



Edited: more accurately "your mane".

 

[smoochypig]

Can we all have a go?

 

[carsonshepherd]

watch out. That horsey kicks...

 

[BlackShanglan]

Damn, I thought you were stroking me *with* feathers. You had my hopes up.

watch out. That horsey kicks...

Only the bad people?

Shanglan

 

[Pure]

hi shang,
i am hoping you'd respond to my comments when you have a chance.

best,
j.

 

[Black Tulip]

Shanglan,

I tried to clear up the start concerning the sleeping arrangements. It's merely a try to point out which areas are confusing. No disrespect meant with regards to your creation.

The ship is laden at last, and we sail on the evening tide. This week past has been a torment to me and to your brother. Tom feels it as much as I do, this frustration of standing idle in port when we might have lingered longer by your side. I hope you know how hard it was to tear ourselves away; only our need could force us. To be faced with a long delay when we arrived was bitter to us both. Now at last we are underway, or will be soon – we only wait for the tide.

I dreamed of you last night. It seemed almost wrong in a rough place like this. But I dreamed that you gave me your blessing. If only I might have slept on for that gentle kiss you stooped to give me. But I woke to moonlight and Tom quiet on his cot by my side/next to mine. For his sake I stifled your name on my lips; I would not wake him by calling for you, for he is as weary as I, and sorry to part from you. We spent this last night ashore, for I know it will be hard for Tom in the close quarters below decks. After we set sail he will have to join the deckhands below. I spared him as long as I could. But he will make a good sailor. He is brave and faces his duty well, though I know it pains him to leave you. With luck, he will rise soon to be an officer, and find himself again in quarters somewhat kinder. Until then, I will do all that I can for him.

I hope this helps.

 

[BlackShanglan]

Some more comments on comments!

BlackTulip, thank you for the comments on clarifyng sleeping arrangements. I like your addition, and am just trying to think how further to clarify that they are ashore and not on the boat at that point.

Pure, sorry to be slow in responding. Work has rather owned me this week - ugh. But some thoughts:

I think you are quite right on the issue of Richard coming across as an active captain, and I am torn a number of different ways on that one. Perhaps part of my delay in responding has been trying to let all of those different impulses come to rest in my brain and work them out. There are many tensions there - what I know vs. what is realistic vs. what the audience would be able to follow, emotional vs. physical reality, what Richard would write to another sailor vs. what he would write to Marie, etc. etc.

I can't say I really have a "response" as such other than to say that people's comments have clarified and identified more tensions existing in the text, and I can feel the fabric of it sawing back and forth as I consider the relative weight to give to each concern. I could go into a bit more detail, and I have had some good input from generous folks who know more about sailing than I do about how to describe it and what words to use. However, at times I felt it necessary to go another way. For example, I was given a very specific example of the precise language a sailor would use in relation to some of the repairs made to the ship. However, I felt that in that case, a ruthless adherence to reality would result in a line that sounded bad and, more importantly, would not be understood by the readers.

I think that the balance I am striking at the moment is one of accepting that Richard cannot and should not strike the reader as all things equally, and that on the whole it is more important to me that they grasp his mental state and emotional nature than his position as a ship's captain. I don't want to make it irretrievably unconvincing, but I am hoping that some of the mediating concerns - i.e., that he is the captain, but that on this particular voyage his mind is very much on other things, and that what we are reading was written as if to a person not familiar with sea terms or language - may help smooth what is essentially a choice to emphasize his emotions and internal development rather than his profession. I don't want to flatly err and say things that don't make sense coming from him, but I don't want to achieve the sense of Richard as sea captain at the expense of other elements like sense of him as an emotional being, speed and pace of the story, or ability of the reader to understand the text. That said, I am still laboring on this and trying to find small, incidental ways of giving more of the feeling of the setting and their roles to the text.

Those are also the concerns with Richard's relatively lyric voice, and similarly I am weighing and considering them. I think that the end of it still faces some cutting, as I did not trim at much there and I think that the beginning of it has improved considerably from draft in terms of becoming more like letters a ship's captain might write to his wife. However, in the end I don't want to lose that break to a more passionate and elevated voice. When I was writing this, I thought of other historical letters I had read - letters from soldiers in the American civil war, letters from husbands to wives in this time period - and the surprising beauty and fineness of many of the lines in them. I do think "ordinary" people capable of lyrical beauty, and I feel content, myself, with the grounding from which Richard's lyricism springs - his love for his wife and his memories of a past but idyllic youth in which beauty and gentleness were prized and rewarded.

I know that there is a break in his writing style, but this is to an extent intended. I wanted a sense of repression or determined matter-of-factness in the beginning to unravel as Richard loses control of his denial and of the language that supports it. I don't mind him breaking into wilder passages as his thoughts grow wilder. However, I do want that wildness to be more compact and powerful than it is now, and to that end I am working on repetition and similar issues. Your suggestions for revision were excellent and I am mulling them over, thinking about wider applicability throughout the text. I know that I can rake over the later letters in the same way that I did the earlier ones, but I feel that I want something rather different from them and I am thinking long and carefully about how best to trim without losing the emotional power and the sense of breakdown and release that I want the language as well as the plot to indicate.

I know you make Tom one of the 'men,' and this goes somewhat against what appear to be his fine qualities and subtlety. It's also a stretch to envision mere minor ribbing for hanging out and sleeping with the captain, if you're one of the 'men'.

I think that you are right here, and I wonder if I should say more specifically, when Richard talks about Tom joining the ship, how he regrets what is essentially a big step down in the world for Tom. I tried to hint at it with Richard's comments about him being able to rise soon and aim for officer, but I wasn't sure how much more to spell it out. Going from working a farm that his family owned to being a deck hand is a social drop, and one that Tom and Marie would both have felt, but I avoided saying too much on this due to the twin constraints of what Richard was likely to say in a letter and what the audience was likely to follow. Now I wonder, though, if I should not give one or two more brief notes on Tom's adjustment to shipboard life - perhaps Richard noticing his depression. It would fit nicely into the setup, of course, as it would again add another layer of possibility to his depressive/reckless behavior and make it feel consistent before we know for sure the real source of his grief.

The men's reaction is something else I go back and forth on, and I very nearly added some comment on more substantial bullying earlier in the story. There were several limiting factors there that held me from it, but to some extent I keep wondering if I ought to go back and put it in anyway. One limiting factor was structural - it felt like it might sidetrack things too much from the main story. One was weighing how things would actually happen. In my mind, the crew - many of whom have sailed with this captain before and found him a fair and honorable man - know that he has just lost his wife and is so deep in mourning that he's acting a little unhinged. I picture some of them actually having some sympathy for him, and resenting Tom less than they might have under other circumstances. The bosun particularly, who is likely to have had a fairly lengthy and close relationship with the captain, would be likely to be keeping a closer than usual eye out for Tom. Then again, between Richard's long sickness and his bouts of depression, Tom - as a member of his family - has got a reason to be in his cabin, even at night. For this reason it is, while perhaps suspected by some, not thoroughly obvious or inarguable that the relationship is becoming a sexual one - at least not by the time they reach Lisbon. Tom also manages to show his mettle fairly early in the trip, and that might spare him some bullying as well.

I also imagine that Tom's not a very attractive prospect to pick on at this stage. He's grieving too, and I think rather angry at points. He's lost his sister and his parents, and the one person he might have looked to for sympathy has sunk into himself so deeply that instead of receiving help, Tom must support them both. I think that there's resentment down there under the hurt, and I imagine that it would not take a great deal to reveal Tom, in an awkward corner, as a man with a lot of pain to lash out with and very little to lose. He's physically quite strong as well, and on the whole that's not a great combination to mess with.

But aside from whether Tom actually faces substantial threats from the crew, there is the question of that appearing in the text - We are reading Richard's letters allegedy to Marie. So in my mind, it is not just a question of what happens to Tom, but what happens that gets as far as 1) Richard knowing about it and 2) Richard writing about it to Tom's sister. I might throw in a hint or two more, but I think on the whole I will not make it anything too heavy. Even if Tom does face bad moments, I think that those two levels of filtering mean it's unlikely to crop up in the text.

But yes. Trim, trim on the final elements, which got less weeding than the rest of the draft before submission. It's all balance now, and I think that that is why I have not said a great deal in response - I can still feel the big balance weights moving back and forth in my mind, trying to find a level. I want the ending more lyrical to work with the sense of release, but I don't want it overblown and totally unrelated to the rest of the work. Weigh, weigh, weigh. Still working on it!

Shanglan