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

[Black Tulip]

Shanglan,

Just wanted to say that it was always clear to me that they spent the last night away from the ship.

You said: ashore.

 

[BlackShanglan]

That I achieved clarity in any way whatsoever is an immense encouragement to me

Shanglan

 

[BlackShanglan]

As we approach the end of a week of excellent and constructive feedback, I just wanted to thank everyone for all of their time and effort. You have given me a great deal to think about, and I can't wait to get back to the text and figure out how to wrangle all of this into place. Cheers again -

Shanglan

 

[Pure]

You're not into safe harbour yet, old salt; seeing as it's a holiday weekend, I'm going to wait till the 12th to put up another.... and in the mean time....let the vivisection continue... paging mr. ripley!

 

[Guest]

It's a very good story. I have to admit, I didn't see Marie's death coming. I was also expecting a threesome twist.

I think it's a beautiful story, but it's a little confusing in places. I'm attributing that to Richard's fever... he's rambling as he writes in places... and should if he's feverish. I also did not see the *positions* Richard and Tom held on the boat very clearly.

The love the characters have for each other comes out in the story quite nicely. I suspected there would be an encounter between Tom and Richard before the story was over. I think you protrayed their misery at the loss of Marie very well.

I agree that it could be trimmed a bit more in places. All of this may have already been said by others, but I wanted to add my thoughts.

 

[Pure]

Could I ask a really stupid question. Or two.

1)Is Marie dead before the two guys set sail? I gather so.

2)Why does the young fellow get angry upon discovering the letters?
[Because it makes the captain look like a nut case?
Because the captain isn't dealing with the death in a reasonable and sensible way?
Because the captain is dishonoring Marie, in trying to continue connecting with her, by surrogate?
Because the captain is apparently just using the man as a standin, while perhaps dreaming of Marie, while in the man's arms?
All of the above? or the reader is not supposed to know?]

 

[BlackShanglan]

Thank you, Lady in Disguise! It actually really helps when people say the same thing as someone else - then I know that it is *really* an issue. I appreciate the time and effort.

Questions and answers:

1)Is Marie dead before the two guys set sail? I gather so.

Yes, you gather correctly. I'm hoping that this is coming through. The first draft version was a little less explicit and I tried to clarify. Think it needs to be clearer?

2)Why does the young fellow get angry upon discovering the letters?
[Because it makes the captain look like a nut case?
Because the captain isn't dealing with the death in a reasonable and sensible way?
Because the captain is dishonoring Marie, in trying to continue connecting with her, by surrogate?
Because the captain is apparently just using the man as a standin, while perhaps dreaming of Marie, while in the man's arms?
All of the above? or the reader is not supposed to know?]

I would say 1, 2, 4, and also because Tom's got some resentment down there, where he doesn't like to admit it, over Richard's behavior from a personal support angle. He's younger and has just lost both his parents and his sister, and instead of helping him Richard is wallowing in his own grief and leaving Tom to fend for both of them. The letters are proof that he's in near-total denial and clinging to it, and I think it's all too much for Tom at this point, anger and grief together. Richard's completely losing it, and I think Tom is grief-stricken, frightened, and angry at once at the depth of Richard's response.

Shanglan

 

[ShyAzn]

Wow!

I never read the first draft or any of your work, but I like. I thought the beginning was slow going--Richard misses Marie, Tom's not doing too well, ok. I kept at it because the letter style was unusual, but tasteful and I was curious.

I somewhat picked up something was amiss when I noticed Marie wasn't writing back, although I assumed it was because they were at sea. Very nice Sixth Sense-ish twist.

I'm not sure about the ending though...I felt it was built up to lean towards Tom being unhappy Richard was trying to purge himself through a surrogate. The end seemed too abrupt, too clean-cut. Maybe it was just me.

Overall, though, I enjoyed it.

 

[dr_mabeuse]

I think this is a lovely plot, and I think the manner in which it’s told is very ambitious and original, but I can’t say that it works for me. Part of it is no doubt due to it’s homosexuality. Not that there’s alything woring with it, as they’d say on Seinfeld, but I doubt that the very hottest gay story would have an affect on me. I’m afraid I’m one of those people who averts my eyes and looks away when men climb into the sack together, so you’ll forgive me if I recuyse myself from judging the sex here..

I read this story in its earlier version, and maybe that’s why I was unable to read it through again. This time I found the endless mooning and breast-beating over Marie to be tedious and ultimately irritating. I’m a pretty impatient reader, but I wonder how many times can you hear someone say “I miss you” before it turns into kvetching and starts to get on your nerves.

Thinking about it now, I really think this story needs a subplot at the start to give the captain something else to write about other than his longing for Marie. There is basically no action before the sex starts, and so all we’re left with is the captain’s longing and despair, and so that makes for some very thick and tiresome going. I think that having some subplot maybe involving Tom’s acceptance by the crew or the ship’s struggles with the storm and limping into port might help propel that part of the story and also give us a chance to see both the captain’s and Tom’s character revealed through action. As it is, despite the inflated nineteenth-century prose, the beginning drags and the captain comes across as a self-absorbed whiner to me, and it’s almost impossible for me to picture him commanding a ship on the ocean. All I can see of him is a man sitting in his cabin with his head in his hands.

I must confess that I’m not big on stories told through letters and correspondence. I think this is just a prejudice of mine, but unless it’s done with extreme skill, stories like this always come across to me as contrived. BS does a pretty good job with it here and avoids falling into patent gimmickry, but still, these don’t read to me like the letters of a seaman and master of his craft. I know that he’s bereft, but still I would expect someone a little more in control and a lot more involved in the running of his ship. He is so soncumed with Marie that it’s hard to imagine him taking charge of anything, and he comes across as very ineffectual. Maybe one of the reasons I lost patience is because it bothered me to have to bear witness to such unremitting pain and despair. I looked for a side to the captain that I could root for, and I didn’t find it.

An author takes big chances when he writes stylized prose like this because one slip and it can fall into unconscious parody. There are passages in here that kind of get too yo-ho-ho for me: the image of Tom drinking rum with the crew and singing “boisterous” songs comes across as a bit too he-manish and butch for me. I don’t think that a man who has spent his life at sea would describe their singing as “boisterous”. It would just be singing as far as he was concerned, and I don’t think they would be drinking rum as much as they would be “taking their grog”. I feel a bit abashed saying this, because BS let me read the story for my comments on the ship-going atmosphere and I told him not to worry about it, just write the story and the details wouldn’t matter much. Now I see how vital they are not only in creating the right nautical mood, but in making the characters real and believable. I think the lack of more seamanlike matters in the captain’s letters contributes to my feeling of him as more a Sunday passenger than a capable master and commander.

There’s another problem inherent in a story like this, and that’s in the theme of sex as redemption from grief. I can recall reading a few stories of characters suffering serious grief who were reborn through sex, and these stories always give me trouble because, while they might be beautiful in their way, they’re never very sexy. There’s nothing that says a Lit story has to be sexy, but death has a way of making sex seem kind of trivial for me and it’s always hard for me to swallow. Maybe it just feels too manipulative.

In any case, I’m aware that BS was aiming for something more than a fuck story, and I think it’s a very impressive piece. It’s flawed, but still, it’s very impressive.

---dr.M.

 

[BlackShanglan]

Dr. M, I had to smile. My main breakthrough in the screenplay (unrelated) I'm working on was, in fact, the recognition of the need for an "A" plot - something counter to the central theme. Just when I think I have learned something ...

Thanks for the insight.

Shanglan

 

[carsonshepherd]

oh dear

S, this might be something. As much as I love the story... yikes, the doc might have a point, about Richard coming off as a whiner.

 

[Varian P]

oh dear to the second power

Let's all have a tug of war with Shanglan!

OK, Shanglan, hopefully this will be halpful rather than confusing or just annoying at this point, but I have a few thoughts on some of the comments you've received.

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.

I haven't gone back to your story, but I'll tell you the impression I had: Richard and Tom are fairly close in age, and the reason that Richard is something of an old hand at sea while Tom is so inexperienced is that Richard abandoned his pastoral life to try to make his way in the world, possibly earning a keep not only for himself and Marie but for Tom as well. Only when things got truly desperate was Richard forced to take Tom from the farm, turning him, relatively late in life, into a seaman.

Thinking about it now, I really think this story needs a subplot at the start to give the captain something else to write about other than his longing for Marie. There is basically no action before the sex starts, and so all we’re left with is the captain’s longing and despair, and so that makes for some very thick and tiresome going.

Others (including you) seem to think this is a good idea, and I don't necessarily disagree. My personal feeling, though, is that as the story stands you've got a wonderfully dark mood working, and I'd hate too much action to detract from the building tension and anxiety. Perhaps I'm all alone in this, but I kind of like wallowing in the despair, and I think it makes the relief which ultimately comes all the more poignant.

the captain comes across as a self-absorbed whiner to me, and it’s almost impossible for me to picture him commanding a ship on the ocean. All I can see of him is a man sitting in his cabin with his head in his hands.

It seems a couple people have taken issue with Richard's plausibility as a captain of a ship, and have found him to be too whiny. On the one hand I understand where this is coming from, and if that's the common reception and it isn't how you want him received you should deal with it. But in my opinion, you could deal with it without altering his behavior on this voyage too much, perhaps by having him make passing reference in a letter that he's glad the crew is reliable, as he realizes he's not living up to his usual duties as captain.

Also, I'm probably swimming against the current on this, but he didn't strike me as overly whiney for a guy whose wife--clearly the center of his who universe--has died, and how, as a 19th-century captain of a vessel, is confronting his nascent homosexuality. If that's not fodder for an emotional crisis of monumental proportions, I don't know what is.

I'm probably not representative of your average reader, since I tend to prefer the hyper sentimental writings of the Brontes, Dostoyevsky, etc., so by all means take my meager advice with a pound of salt.

-Varian

 

[BlackShanglan]

Varian -

I appreciate your feedback as well - the more so as you have been so generous of your time all throughout the composition and development of the story!

I am somewhat torn here. On the one hand, I do actually agree with many of your comments, and to a great extent was relieved to hear some of them, as I had thought similarly and was beginning to doubt if I knew my own mind. On the other hand, I am intensely mindful - as one must be when one chooses to lecture others on a topic - that it is unhelpful to ask for feedback and then respond to it with a bulleted "why I am right about everything" manifesto. It is rude, and it is also, I am convinced, unhelpful to the author. Marshalling all of one's attention to "defending" one's work discourages serious consideration of comments and honest openess to change, things which I believe to be important - although at times it takes a stiff sherry or two to keep criticism company. ("Criticism" meant, as I hope is clear anyway, as critical analysis and useful input, not injurious attack.)

That said (and rather at length) - I was pleased to see that some of the assumptions I myself was making about their ages, their positions, Richard's lack of attention to his work and reasons therefore, etc., were at least coming through to you I think that sharpening those impressions will probably be the work of fine-tuning rather than restructuring; I am thinking, for example, of something like the change in the characterization of Tom, which you were privy to through drafts and which was accomplished through small changes in language rather than major changes in events. I am thinking, now, of something similar in tone on Richard. Your own suggestion of a brief side-comment indicating thankfulness that the bosun is up to handling the extra burden, or similar, is very much what I have in mind, and I thank you for that advice!

I go back and forth on this, but in the end I think that I will let the idea of a second plot go. I'm not 100% sure that it's the right decision, but I think that it is in keeping with my goals. I view the piece as essentially lyric - that is, a work with the goal of conveying with power a central image, emotion, or mood - rather than dramatic, with the goal of enunciating a thoroughly detailed and developed plot.

That said, I think that the lyric goal will be better achieved through reduction, and that this may actually answer some of the other concerns. More trimming of language will - I hope - help to reduce "whininess," which was a fear of my own from the start. I like the emotion of the piece, but I think it needs to be condensed and given a bit more power through greater compactness. It should also help with the narrative structure by moving the other way. That is, there are two ways you can go with something that has too much language for its ideas. You can trim language, or increase ideas. Adding a second plot essentially increases ideas; I think I will go the other direction and trim language and image until they are more suited to the burden of the thought in the story.

I am sure that this is much more thought than so brief a story deserves, but thank you all for your patience. It's the thought as much as the product that I enjoy, and although it is, in the end, only a little love story, I enjoy making as much of it as I can. Thank you for all of your help -

Shanglan

 

[impressive]

Okay, I saw Pure’s dig about the rather sparse nature of my critiques – so I’ll try to do better. Please know, however, that this is not a strength for me. I’m definitely not cut out to be an editor, mainly because I do not ‘think’ when I read – I ‘feel.’ It’s often quite difficult for me to quantify what I liked and disliked about a story beyond nit picky stuff about commas and such.

What I felt was an achingly poignant story about grief and discovery. Definitely moving. It was beautifully written and I especially liked Richard’s voice before he was taken by fever/madness. It flowed for me and was a joy to read.

In later letters, though, I struggled to stay with him. Although I understand the necessity for the shift in cadence, I had to force myself not to skim. I’d like to see some of Richard’s initial eloquence return in the last letter(s).

Questions about Tom nagged me throughout. At first, I thought he was missing his sister (but not in the grieving sense) – and that seemed incongruous, perhaps even incestuous (but I got no vibe that you were headed in that particular direction). Once the parents’ death was mentioned, I then assumed he was overcompensating for that grief by being overly clingy towards his sibling. Then, I thought he was quiet/withdrawn because he was discovering his sexuality amidst all the men onboard. I still kinda question whether Tom was bi- or homosexual (or suspected of such) prior to setting sail. Richard’s repeated “I’ll take care of him” assurances led me believe that Tom was – well – perceived as weak in some way or in need of protection. Why?

Tom’s age was a puzzle (in part due to the implied vulnerability) until you flat out stated it. I was leaning toward a neo-adolescent boy taken on as an apprentice (or whatever they’re called on ships).

In all, I was quite moved by the emotion, but not by the eroticism. That the story involved two men is irrelevant to me – I would have gotten the same “romance-y” feel from a couple of any composition. If that was your intent, you succeeded admirably. However, if you wanted more of an erotic kick, I think it’d require a little more indication that these two men were not together SOLELY due to grief. I mean – sure, grief might drive them together – but it requires too big a leap for me without some sort of underlying attraction. (What might have happened, say, if Marie had not been dead?) For example, my friend & I dearly love another friend. If he died, although we’d both be seriously grieving, we’d not end up in one another’s arms – simply because there is no baseline sexual energy. (Instead, using your ship setting, we’d end up pursuing mindless sex with others in the crew as a sort of salve or temporary distraction.) Does that make any sense at all?

The last thing I’ll note is being just a bit distracted by the number of sentences that began with “But.” This may be a style of the period, and if so, just ignore my comment. However, in some instances, I felt the sentences would flow more smoothly if compounded.

Okay, that was thoroughly draining to me, but I hope I’ve provided at least a little more depth than in earlier reviews. Feel free to follow up with any questions on my remarks – either here or via PM. I intentionally didn’t read the others’ comments – and I’m off to do so now.

All the best,

Imp

 

[BlackShanglan]

After long absence ...

Apologies. Work has been ... well, work-ish, and demanded that I do work things for quite some time. But I have finally found the time to make revisions based on all of the excellent advice given to me in this thread. I managed to hack 1500 words out of the story - about 15% of it length - and I think it's really benefitted from that and from several suggested changes. Notably, I think Tom's continuing to improve as a character, I tried to give just slightly more sense of the action on board the ship, and I think I finally succeeded in clarifying the sleeping arrangements in the first letter. I don't know if anyone has the mammoth patience needed to read through this again, but if you have - here it is.

Shanglan



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

From The Hesperus

Portsmouth
The King’s Head
January 12, 1865

My dear Marie,

The ship is laden at last, and we sail on the evening tide. Tom and I spent the night ashore; I know the voyage will be hard upon him in the close quarters below decks, and I have spared him as long as I could. I hope you know how hard it was to tear ourselves away; only our need could force us.

But do not worry. Your brother will make a good sailor. He 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 in quarters somewhat kinder. Until then, I will do all that I can.

I dreamed of you last night. It seemed almost wrong in a rough place like this, but you gave me your blessing. If only I might have slept on for that kiss you stooped to bestow. 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, for he is as weary as I, and sorry to part from you.

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

Your Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 14, 1865

Marie –

We are upon the sea 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 your smile. They would laugh, my crew, to see their captain so. 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 know you worry for him. It is true, this is no gentle life – but he is strong, and good at heart. He thinks of you, and that keeps him from growing too rough in his ways. We have a fine crew; the bosun, the sailing master, and half the hands have all made this journey before, and good honest 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.

He is old, to be so new to the trade; a man of twenty with no sense of the sea is a strange thing to the crew. They have made him some trouble for this and for his kinship to me, but he bears himself well under it. Poor Tom; his nature is finer than theirs, and he feels how much he has lost, to be lowered thus in the world. Yet he bears it without complaint, and gives no man cause for offense. The bosun has a close eye to him, and I trust his care; he has been many a year with me, and in truth Marie – with my mind so close upon you and Tom, he is more good to the ship this voyage than I am.

I dreamed of you again – 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 wise that day, Marie – wise and worried, a deep sea-gray with the blue in them. You held me there with your calm strength and the faith that was in your gaze. My heart was with you all the 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 15, 1865

Dear Marie,

Calm seas. The men are in good spirits. I think of you tonight, with the bright stars one sees upon the ocean.

It is strange, how good it is to have Tom by me on this voyage – he with your eyes and your fine bright hair. He has your fire and diligence as well, and leaves nothing about him undone. It gives me a quiet comfort – to know that among my crew, there is this one heart who is bound to mine.

But I am sorry to take him from you. Forgive me; I could see no other way. I pray that you know how I longed to leave him with you, your gentle protector. His place 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 if I could help it.

But with the loss of your parents – ah, Marie. I would have given anything to hold that farm for you, the fields where you ran barefoot, the stables where we played as children, the pond where you came – yes, I saw you, little vixen – to peep on Tom and me when we swam. I have loved that home and that little valley, 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 we all must seek our fortunes.

I have this comfort left. I know that you, at least, remain close by the home of our childhood. 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 18, 1865

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

The storm rose fast. It caught us with canvas up and we lost the topmast before we could take in sail. We limp now toward 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. Our hearts are heavy, Tom’s and mine, for each day we are slowed draws us further from you. But we comfort each other, and are of good courage.

And of courage is Tom made. He was our champion this storm. There are men here who owe their lives to him, though he will never say it himself. He has taken some taunting for his quiet ways and his close company with his captain, but he hears none of it now. He is gone with the hands this evening; they have full rations of grog, all left standing to drink it. 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 worry for Tom. Not for his soul; he has that same calm strength that he has always had. 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 … an emptiness. A hollow place. He fears nothing, like a man who has nothing.

Send him your heart. He needs it.

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 20, 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.

We were by the hedgerow, where the orchard meets the pond, that day you first kissed me and made my heart leap like a hare. Have I ever told you truly how you moved me, with just the touch of your hand and your kiss? 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, but I woke to an empty ship.

We should 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 21, 1865

My dear Marie,

We are safe in port, and Tom is close by my side. The men are fast at work to brace the mast, and we take on water and provisions in the morning. With luck we will leave port in a few days. I am hampered in the language – ah, yes, you laughed at my French, but you never heard my Spanish – and have not yet posted 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 rough plastered walls and its bell tower. Tom came with me, and we gave you our prayers –

Richard


La Coruña
January 23, 1865

My Marie,

Tom lies quiet aboard tonight. It should comfort me, but it does not.

I had hoped that the busy life of the port would brace him; I gave him the day and the night to do as he would. 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.

But he will not go. 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 25, 1865

Marie –

We make ready to sail. It is well; this low, salt town has a thickness in the air, and it settles heavy 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. It is selfish of me not to. But you will forgive me, I know, if I keep them some little while longer. They comfort me, and you will know all the better how I love you when you read them at last.

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 26, 1865

My dear Marie,

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

My love. 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, 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 – 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 beg you, Marie – give him your heart.

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
January 30, 1865

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

My love. He needs you. You know how good a man I think him, and I could never see any harm in Tom. But whether through proving his worth amongst the crew, or – more, I think – that his 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 met in 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. But I saw how his eyes glanced from mine with that look of sorrow that hangs upon him, and our talk fell silent. At last I bid him sleep upon the chairs in my 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 every morning in the glass.

It was well he stayed with me, for that night 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 on 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 felt your lips, Marie, upon my fevered skin, and dreamed that it was your touch that spread the fire through me.

Tom is come. I must go. My love –

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
February 2, 1865

Marie –

Forgive me. I am weak. But Tom is kind, and as strong as ever. The fever is heavy upon me, and when the light blinds my eyes and burns in my body, then I know nothing of what I say, or where I am, or what I do. But Tom keeps to my side, and hardly sleeps. I thank God for you both.

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 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 there, and soothes me to sleep with a touch as gentle as your own. Good Tom. Does he know who I dream of?

I live for those dreams. When will I see you again?

Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
February 3, 1865

I met you last night, Marie. My lips touched yours in the twilight lane, there in the shadow of the blackthorn hedge. Tom was with us, weaving garlands, and the blossoms lay like snow upon your skin. We laid you gentle on the green sward and scattered the petals 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 there, your lips stooped to mine. But it was Tom come to tend me, for 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 6, 1865

I found you pacing the deck, Marie. 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. It 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 arms empty. 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. 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 when he left, with the twilight falling all around. But he might have stayed, for it was right for him to be under our roof – even that night, that joined the two he loved best. 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 the strongest 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. All my fear and awkwardness left me, and we loved so sweetly through the night, learning to please, finding the way of each other. My patient one. You soothed me, and when at last we touched that divine mystery – ah, my soul is forever yours.

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

R


The Hesperus, at sea
February 7, 1865

Forgive me, Marie. Forgive. What words can I ever say?

This morning. The light so gray. I wept, Marie, in my sleep. 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 crying out to you. You came and met my lips, and all my soul awoke.

To Tom. 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. His hands. Strong, and my body weak with fever.

For your sake, I swear, I could not bear to see his pain. Your name was there between us. I touched his cheek, and – God, forgive me. I kissed him. It was, for all the world, that same moment when first I kissed your lips. 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. I touched his hair. I kissed his lips, that met with mine. And my heart opened to him. He is so strong, so kind to my suffering. He brings me the only comfort he can – his kiss, wild but tender as your own.

No more than that. No more, I swear. His body by mine, our lips met, the scent of his skin and his rough linen. His strength. God, how I needed him. Marie. Please. Do not make me say it. How I need you both. Come to us, Marie, I beg you. I am near to madness. Guide me.

Your Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
February 9, 1865

This storm. Will it never end?

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

He has come to me. Gentle friend whose love is fierce, devotion wild in his heart. Like no other. No other but you.

I kissed him. But when 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. How I wronged him in leading that trusting spirit astray in the moment of his sorrow. He did not know what he did. He is young, a man in years but innocent, and more like you than me.

I tore myself from him. He was hurt, and that look in his eyes – the misery that he saw alike in mine – that nearly brought me back. But I feared the wrong I would do him, and forced myself up to walk the deck. I kept away until exhaustion drove me back, 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 laid me in my bunk and prayed for my soul. When I knew myself again Tom was by me, hunched against the bunk and still clutching the cloth he had wet to soothe my brow. With his head bowed in exhausted sleep, his body trailing soft upon the sheets, 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. God forgive me. It is love, I swear, but it was hunger too. His skin was rough with the wind and salt, tanned on his face but white beneath his shirt. I kissed there before I knew my purpose – kissed and tasted flesh like yours, soft and white but strong beneath. So tired, Marie. I am so tired, and all my body cries out to you. To him. To you both. His lips touched mine, and our hands met flesh, and – he came into my bed. Forgive me. His place was there, as natural as the swelling of the waves. His body fit to mine, his touch, his hands, the scent of his skin – your name, Marie. 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? Hair like yours beneath my hands, his lips touched gentle to mine, his 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. Marie. No other touch but yours. No other in all my life. But Tom. I damned myself in that touch.

I lay with him through the night. Lips met. Warm against him. I did not – I – spared him the worst dishonor. But Marie. Help me. His face – his eyes. I touched him, and he cried out, and his voice was yours. He came to me, friend of my boyhood, dear companion of all my years – good brother from you, my wife. I loved him, and in his body – so strong, so sweet, so much your own and so unlike – there was love that answered and joined with mine. He came to me as trusting as a child, all the power of him come gentle to comfort and be solaced. I held 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. God, forgive me. I will destroy this with the first light. But I took him in my hands and touched his taut, smooth body, touched as I longed for him to touch me. He clung to me sweetly, God, as sweetly as my own dear Marie. He called me by my name, his voice so rough and broken that he stung me to tears, and I kissed him, my beloved, and brought him to me. I … was as strange to him as his hands were to me. But 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 and find the path to pleasure. I … thus with Tom. Tender. Slow. And – my soul. Ah, my soul. Marie, I was lost, as he beat and pulsed within my hands and moaned against my body. I held him long, my sweet Marie, and I would not put him from me for any thing. I held him close, and when I slept – my God, Marie, did I dream you smiled?


The Hesperus, at sea
February 11, 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 – oh, Tom. My heart broke to see him. He put his head to the desk and wept. His poor broken body. His 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 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 was. Do not make me say it.

I love you.

Your Richard


The Hesperus, at sea
February 12, 1865

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

Tom. He came to me again. That night, that evening, when the sun was sinking in the sky. 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. 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 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.

I knew him, Marie. I knew what I did. And I did it, though I knew with whom. 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, joy and affection. I could not do it, Marie. I could not put him from me. And I did not want to.

The gray dawn light. Will it ever be day again? I saw him in it, his golden hair touched to lead, his eyes sunk in shadow. 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. He put his face to my chest, and – ah, Marie. He wept. He wept for you, with a grief as open as a child’s. I held him to me, close in our pain, and he murmured low – “We share this, Richard. Let us be true.”

I held him close. He needed it, I swear. I could not bear to see 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 until our hearts lay at peace and – Marie. Our bodies stirred.

He would have – given himself. Touched his lips upon me, there where I ached for him. 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 little 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 love I might bring him, surely I owed him – 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. Unto 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 knew the truth, whether I wished you to or not. You made me an honest man, for a lie could never pass that gentle gaze. And oh – the touch of him was sweet to me. His hands upon my skin, his lips touching my neck, my chest – God. My belly. Thighs. And there I must, I must stop him, and how else, Marie? How else?

Do you remember that night, Marie, when you first let me kiss where I 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 hungered so to feel you? How your body arched up to mine when my lips came to you at last? 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 upon his thighs. 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 thus in him.

Yet there was – difference. He was you, Marie, and he was Tom, and my mind ran so 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. Hard and smooth, like the handle of an axe wrought fresh from the ashwood. Heavy, good 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. I whispered his name on the skin of his thighs, and raised my lips to kiss his fullness in my hand.

Rich and warm, the skin, the scent, the touch of him. Nothing, Marie, like your own soft body, 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. You were there by the side of the bunk, your soft white hand upon his brow. How did you come there? What did you do, kissing your Tom as he cried out to us both? Tom, beloved, with his fine strong limbs and the trembling arch of his body. Touching my lips. Sliding slowly into my mouth. God help me, it was a sin terrible, a pleasure so sweet – my Tom. Such wild beauty. His hands twined into my hair; his body shuddered and clung to mine, flung down along my back with his lips kissing my neck. It was good, so good, as I took him to me, woke his spirit, brought him to hungry desire. We are but beasts. I know I shall be damned. But I trembled with the fire that ran through me, and though my hands shook, my heart, Marie – my heart was in rapture. When the moment came – when Tom cried out, and his body shook, and he pressed himself sweetly to my lips – I held him to me, close against my body, and – What words? What words can I say? The taste of him. The touch.
I might have lingered there forever, kissing that body that met my lips. Oh, good Tom. How kind he was to me. He drew me to him and murmured my name, gentle to my ears. Flesh to flesh. Naked. Pure. Tender. And his words, as he held me there – so soft, the brush of his lips on my ear.

“She will forgive us.”

The tears stung me, but I fought them. I kissed his body – so wild, so yielding – and all my blood woke to him. It was all I could do to tear myself away and 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 eyes to the soft green hills and the little dell with the wooded church, and that last, long sight of you.

I would that I had never drawn breath upon this earth – but for that one day. That day long ago, when I woke at dawn to the cool green morning. I walked with you and Tom out to the strand to find the cattle up to their bellies in the dewy grass. Tom ranged wild before us, bold with his wooden sword, and I was but a boy myself that day. I walked beside you, carrying your pail, and felt a slow, warm wonder when my hand touched against yours. My eyes opened and I loved you, Marie, that day and always.

My mind. It will not rest. I have put this letter from me a dozen times, but it lies 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 to torment 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. 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, Marie. My heart.


The Hesperus, at sea
February 13, 1865

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

Tom. Marie. What can I do but go to him, knowing the pain he feels? Knowing what sight is in both our eyes – your face, your sweet form – God help me. The churchyard. The dell. The flowers. The blackthorn that blossoms white over –
Over your –

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

But Tom. My only. 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 but our one friend, our sweet companion, in whose company we never felt ourselves burdened, nor without whom, in truth, were we ever complete? That gentle soul 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 15, 1865

My Marie –

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

I cannot tell you all the beauty of this night. But I need not, need I? For in the depths of the long watches, did I not see you with me? I write these words for you, my angel. I know that you can see.

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

My Tom. His eyes burned, his pain so deep that it shamed me to see him. I had lingered so long on the hurt done to me – on the pain within me still. But it was not I alone who lost you. Can I 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? Our Tom. He wanted my help so much, and I failed him. I left him alone on all the ocean to weep his loss – even of me, who should have been his friend. But no more, Marie. No more will I fear the love I bear him. For I have seen you smile.
He came to me last night. When the door had closed and we were left alone, I took him to me 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. I held him close, brother, son, comrade … oh, more than all these things, Marie. More than any of them. I kissed him with all my love on my lips and opened my heart to him.

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

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

Did I feel at that moment your lips upon my brow? When I looked, you had gone into the shadows, but I saw you there, Marie – all the long and tender night.

I held him long, touching his tears, so strange with his limbs as hard as oak. It was always his way, Tom, that gentle heart so like your own. But himself, Marie. I saw this, in the grace and power of his touch, strong yet gentle upon me. I must love Tom himself, not only for you. I must – and I did. That day, Marie, so many years ago – my hand met yours, and in that one moment I knew that I loved you. This night, Marie, my hands touched Tom. They sunk soft in his golden hair, and I loved him.

You smiled, Marie. I drew his lips to mine, and this time I knew no fear. My soul was released. From torment. To Tom.

He was shy of me. Though my hands touched soft on his body and my lips brushed his own, his eyes turned away. He knew I saw you in him, his hair, his face – so calm and strong, God, how had I never seen the beauty of him? His hurt ran so deep that it struck my heart, and I saw what wrong I had done him. In following you so far, my love – unto the very grave – I had left poor Tom desolate, driven near to follow us both. Grieved with the wrong I have done him, I put all of my heart into a kiss. More – I kissed him, Marie, with hunger, for I saw too well 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. All he had, he would have given. But I saw him then, a man himself, and – ah, Marie, my heart. You are within it forever. But I love him. Friend of my childhood, brother of my days of happiness, and – lover in my mourning. Yes. My lover, and I to him.

We came slowly to it. I stroked his hair and kissed him, long, soft kisses that he returned. Still he turned half away; he scarce could put his faith in me. I drew him to my lips, held him close and murmured his name to him. I gave between my kisses my plea for forgiveness and my sorrow for the wrong I had done him. I swore that I would not leave him again – not in the flesh, nor in the spirit. I swore, Marie – and now I know that I need no forgiveness – that I would come back to him, nor spend my days in my heart kneeling by the side of your grave. There was comfort there, comfort and oblivion – but Tom calls to me now with love and solace, and my duty to him is grown a pleasure.

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

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

Then he grew less shy, Marie – less fearful that I could not love him. Ah, my Tom. Forgive me that I ever put that doubt into your mind. His eyes began to soften and 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 – and what taste there was upon his lips, salt, strong, my own, his taste and mine together. I kissed his lips with a whisper of his name. The deep answer in his eyes – the grateful light that rose and burned there, the aching relief that I answered him at last – oh, how I felt it. The love of him, and how he had suffered for it, all these long months when I sank within myself. I kissed him again and took him in my hands, until he trembled and groaned and cried out near to breaking.
My name, he cried – my own, and yours, pressed to my body in that aching moment. I knew what he told me. He loved me the more for your touch upon me – for that he followed the path of your hands on my body, and took to him the flesh that was once your own. And is, Marie – and is. Yours still in heart, both of us, only loving you more, that we love each other.

This last offering I made him. This act of love together. This one thing between us two – that we could never share, Marie. That Tom alone could ever bring me. This I gave. This I desired.
I kissed his lips and put my hand upon him – his straight, strong length that leapt beneath my touch. I trembled then, for never – never had I done this thing, nor ever thought to do. When I drew him softly to me, he shuddered, though we clung close upon each other. It frightened us both. Were we men still? Were we sinners? Were we true to you, Marie, or to each other? Then he kissed me. Gently. Ah, sweet Tom. His lips upon my neck woke me to passion, and fear fell away in the warmth of our bodies. I, the eldest, ever in the lead, ever the first to order our days – I lay down beneath him and let him soothe me, close 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. I saw you then as you came out from the shadows and touched your hand upon his back. I saw you smile. 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 has brought rest to mine.

He came softly upon me Marie, but strong – gentle as ever your hands were, but a comfort in his power. His body, kind but hungry, arched and stroked and moved against me until I cried out beneath him. His touch caressed me, roused and lingered, learning the way of our bodies – 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 cool upon my brow – I felt it there at last, soothing, comforting, God, Marie – ah, Tom! He touched so gently it was hardly felt, and stroked, strong and warm, hard and smooth, all upon my tender skin. Then he lay close down upon me, groaned and kissed me, and called me by my name. With all his love he took me, and came at last into my body.

What words. Oh, bliss. Ecstasy. Pain forgotten. No thought of fear. Only Tom, come at last to me, filling the ache of my body until I sobbed to feel him. Tom, my friend, my hungry lover close upon me; I cried out and he panted desperate, pressing home a wild love until I begged and shook again. He sank deep, gasping, then touched his hands upon me swift and strong. He 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 – cried out, and loved you. Your smile, Marie. It aches into my heart, but God – the gift you gave us. That final gift. Your blessing.

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

Your Richard


Lisbon
February 16, 1865

I write, Marie, as I await his coming. What tremor comes upon me now with the 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 sings in my soul, at last, when I lay down with him. The scent of his body. The touch of my lips on his skin. His limbs warm against my own, the low, sweet draw of his breath, beautiful to me now and always.

I see now, Marie, what brought you to my deck – what set you to walk the night uneasy. Forgive me, my darling. My torment was your own. I longed to hold you to this earth. How I longed to keep you. But – God, the words are pain still. Pain deep but sweet, Marie. 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 will come to us. And we will rejoice, we three together – we 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 faith forever will be ours.

You will not come again. I know this 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 come gentle to my touch. Tom, my beloved, here and 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 light, a hope, a promise. I love you. I love you both with all my heart.

And now, Marie. The time is come. 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 – not from uneasy graves or misery too long held close, but from love, and tenderness, and remembrance. I would have us dream of you together, as when we knelt last night, Marie, with your picture before us, and prayed for your soul – and gave our thanks for this last gift of your loving heart. You are forever with us.

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 more words, Marie. 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 will 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 will put these pages to rest, to lie forever in your care.

Our hearts, Marie. We love you.

Richard

Thomas

 

[carsonshepherd]

The one thing I was afraid of, was that while you were cutting, you would cut out anything risky and take away all the wild joy from this story. But you didn't. You just cut the draggy stuff.

It's wonderful.

I should have known not to doubt you.

 

[BlackShanglan]

The one thing I was afraid of, was that while you were cutting, you would cut out anything risky and take away all the wild joy from this story. But you didn't. You just cut the draggy stuff.

There was draggy stuff?

It's wonderful.

I should have known not to doubt you.

Bah. I got good advice. My main contribution was having the sense to take it.

Really glad you like it.

Shanglan

 

[smoochypig]

Excellent revision BS! I just finished reading it from start to finish again and I would say it is a great testament to your editing that it reads so smoothly - much much better !

You didn't lose a single thing from the story line or characterisation - and in fact, with it so much cleaner now they came through much more convincingly.

I even found a few more references I didn't pick out before that hinted at Marie's death! It's like a regular mystery puzzle to solve finding them all!

Well done!

 

[ShyAzn]

I thought I has posted before...

But I guess not. I have to agree with the above posters. Nothing is lost in your revision; it flows very well.

I was very much reminded of scenes in the 1994 movie, Legends of the Fall, where Julia Ormond's Suzanna writes to Brad Pitt's Tristan. Letters written are never sent to the intended. I almost thought you were going in that direction when I read your story.

I see that I was wrong, but I liked it all the same.

 

[Black Tulip]

Beautiful. *sigh*

You did a very good job in revising. It reads smooth and has lost nothing of the urgency, the emotions that pull you along.

 

[BlackShanglan]

We shoot - we score!

Humble and heartfelt thanks to all of you, both for your kind words of encouragement and for your excellent advice. This story improved immensely thanks to its stint here on the SDC.

The fruit of our labors, I am delighted to say, is now posted under "Gay Male" with a charming, beautiful, lovely little green box next to it ... a box with an "E" in it.

Oh bliss

Shanglan

 

[Mark James]

Great Read

Shanglan:

I've only read the revised version of your story, so that's what I'll comment on.

First, let me say that I love the letter format. It’s something that I think is very hard to master because you’re always stuck with one point of view and nearly no dialogue. But you’ve done a masterful job here.

The story of the captain and his son was beautifully, hauntingly erotic. I love nineteenth century writers (Dickens, Tolstoy, James, Wilde). What I really enjoyed about your story is the way the reader is drawn into Richard’s madness. By the time Thomas finally said that Marie had been dead three months, I kind of suspected it already.

The writing is superb. You did a fantastic job capturing the slow, tapestry like pace of nineteenth century writing. Richard was completely believable as a man driven mad by grief over the loss of his wife. When he turns to Thomas for comfort, it seems right and natural that it should happen that way. It doesn’t feel like something the writer contrived so that he could write an “erotic” story about it.

The writing creates a whole aura of mystique. I can feel the ship rolling with the dark seas, even hear the waves lapping against the sides of the vessel. And I completely felt the anguish and horror of the grief that is tearing Richard apart.

I thought the scenes between Thomas and Richard were good in the way that you describe the youth and beauty of Thomas. I got a little confused sometimes about the action of the sex scenes (who was doing what to who), but, the writing is so good and the entire atmosphere that you create worked so well, that I didn’t care that much. I reveled in the way the worlds built up on each other until I felt in some weird way I was Marie, there watching the two of them in spirit.

Nice job.

MJ

 

[BlackShanglan]

Thanks very much for your kind words, Mark. It had not struck me consciously to think of the Marie as a reader stand-in, or the reader as a Marie stand-in, but now that you mention it, it certainly seems to work. Goodnes, how clever of me

Shanglan