Encumbered
By Dragon Wings
Morning
fog had settled around the house, tide at the flood, loud, insistent.
Mugs in hand, the two women sat in the parlour before the bay window,
Grace with her legs curled under her hips, Elizabeth with her legs
outstretched, feet propped on the ottoman, the mission chairs turned
to the room, their backs to the gloomy yard. Elizabeth insisted on
many British spellings, and this was one of them. 'Parlor' without
the 'u' seemed to lack some dignity. The word was from the Latin
'parlare', to speak; and Elizabeth rather preferred the definition
that was rarely listed: a room in a convent used for conversation.
"He
wants me to meet him in Papeete," Grace said.
"He
wants what?" Elizabeth said. Her eyes had widened behind the
lenses of her glasses. "How in the world ... "
"Rather
simple really. All captains are required to carry satphones on their
deliveries. Call anyone. Anywhere." Grace reached out and took
the older woman's hand. "We have time yet, Bess. We'll finish
the book."
The
cool, damp air always carried such a distinct odor. That business
about raindrops releasing smells from hitting the ground seemed just
the least bit farfetched. Elizabeth thought rather that it was the
sea air mixing with the smell of the vegetation on shore with a pinch
of ozone if a storm were brewing.
Not
to mention the Proustian effect: smells evoke memories. They, too,
call. She turned to her friend, and said, "What, dear, is a
satphone?"
A
smile from Grace, a pat of the hand. "I'm sorry, Bess. Satellite
telephone. Like GPS. Yes? Bounce signals off satellites."
"Ah."
"But
Tahiti is just Option Number One. It could be New Zealand or
Australia. Mon Capitaine's Grand Plan."
"Which
is?" Elizabeth did not like that 'my
captain' business, no matter how whimsical Grace voiced the phrase.
"He
wants to sail right around the world; and do so on other people's
boats, getting paid for the privilege."
"And
that works how?"
They
sipped tea. Gulls were circling the house. Prosaic coastal scene.
Romantic novel. The heroine on the cliff waving her hanky farewell,
farewell as the clipper makes sail and fades into the distance.
"Simple
really. He makes his delivery to Papeete. Picks up another boat for
Auckland or Sydney. Same again to South Africa. Right on around the
watery planet. Easy peasy." Grace shrugged. "He's had the
notion in his head for some time now."
The
young woman placed her hands on the arms of the chair, circled her
fingertips around the smooth, fine grain of the arms. "Tea
time," she said, and made to stand.
"And
you know how to sail, no doubt."
"I
do. Jack lived on a battered old Wharram catamaran. Still a steady
sailor, that boat."
"Jack?"
Grace
gave a shake of her head, a bit of smile. "Hawaii? Surfing?"
"Yes,
yes. That Jack."
"That
Jack. He lived on an old boat, Óle Wale." Standing, she said,
"The name means nothing of value. Jack was anal about his
possessions. He was very careful not to be owned by things he owned.
Not even his boat. 'Only thing of value sits right in here,' he would
say, and tap his chest with his stubby fingers."
"Some
Jack, your Jack."
"That
he was." A look, then, out the window.
"Was?"
Grace
stood. "Five years ago now. Or nearly so. He was off to see
friends on Lanai. Never arrived. No sign of Jack or Óle Wale."
Elizabeth
turned her head, gazed out the window. "Doing what he loved is
what they say, but that's just an empty euphemism to mask sorrow. And
sorrow is a problem for the living," she said. "Dealing
with grief. Always a problem about how one should proceed."
A
rueful smile from Grace. "When I was first in Hawaii, after my
parents had died, a counselor told me that grief was just another
emotion, like anger or happiness, and learning to control one emotion
helps to control them all."
"Preaching
stoicism was he?"
"Doing
his best. I was eight years old, and not nearly as wise as our young
Ikkyu seemed to be. Or Mori for that matter. The counselor---an older
Caucasian woman---struggled to elicit some response from me. It seems
I had already learned to bury my emotions."
"There
is that passage in Mori's manuscript ... the crux of the matter, I
think."
"Where
she is accosted by the carpenter?"
"Just
after. She goes on to the temple."
"Yes,
sitting on the veranda singing her song."
I
sat quite still disregarding the pain from the bruise on my cheek. My
hair still tousled, my thin faded, drab kimono still disheveled.
Footsteps from the temple. I glanced quickly, but continued my song.
I sang so softly, it surprised me that anyone might hear.
The
priest stood in the doorway, listening. My lyric surprised him. It
went:
The
fair lady who rolls up her window is blind.
She
sits deep within, and knits her moth eyebrows.
One
sees only the traces of her tears,
but
knows not who she is hating.
The
priest waited until I stopped. I knew several verses; but most often
I would just repeat one or two. Over and over. When I sat quiet, he
approached me, knelt. He turned his head to one side, then the other.
I thought he would try to console me. Tears ran down my cheeks. But
he merely sighed, and said, How is it, child, that you become so
encumbered by dragon wings?
Grace
unfolded her legs, gazed across the yard.
"And
so, was that it? Had you grown some dragon wings?" Elizabeth
asked.
"Like
Mori, I knew not who---or what---I was hating. Not then."
"And
now?"
"And
now?" Grace folded her hands in her lap. "Hate," she
said, " slowly becomes superfluous. If one is the least bit
reflective. Yes?"
"And
if one has the habit of reflection; age offers many opportunities for
practice."
Grace
entwined her fingers. A boat came slowly around the far point just
beyond the breakers, the captain feathering his bow against the push
of the swell, two crewmen hanging over the gunwale scanning the
water, gulls flitting about the cranes, swooping over the stern, the
wake kicking up white water.
She
and Jack, sitting just beyond the break. Somewhere on the North
Shore. Could be anywhere on the North Shore. Or nowhere. Swells roll
in, sets of four or five, but none big enough to trip over the reef
and break. She lay prone on her board; Jack sits with knees cradled
in his arms. Trades softly blowing. Gulls mewling. Sun rolling to the
western horizon.
"Enough,"
Jack says.
"Think
so," I answer.
"Not
a question."
I
look at him, right leg crooked out awkwardly; he sits serenely,
complacently.
"What
then?" I ask.
"Enough,"
he says. "Hawaiian fellow say, lawa. Means strong. Sufficient."
He grins. "That you, cupcake."
"Me?"
I sit up, swinging legs around to straddle the board.
"'Me?'",
he mimics. "No more inaina aku"
"Who's
pissed off? Me?"
"No
more." He lays out on the board, paddles. "Little bigger
swell, bit of break. In we go," he says, laughing.
Elizabeth
reached out and touched Grace's arm.
"Odd,"
the young woman said. "There really isn't a word for 'hate' in
Hawaiian. Jack cobbled some beach slang together. Inaina aku."
"Pissed
off," Elizabeth said.
Grace
laughed. "Leave it to you. Yes. Pissed off. Really pissed
off," Grace said.
"Happens
to the best of us. Emotion hard to manage. Comes from our old brain,
I'm told. Survival thing."
"Of
course." Grace stretched and stood. "And as one gets
older?"
"Sometimes
I think we just lose interest. Too busy trying to keep the systems
functioning. Becomes a major project just to walk downstairs."
Elizabeth got purchase on the arms of the chair and pushed herself
up. "Salad for lunch?" she said.
"I
made pico de gallo. Remember?" The young woman cocked her head
and raised her eyebrows. "And corn bread? With an extra dollop
of honey?"
Elizabeth
looked blank, then sighed. She slowly raised a hand and tapped her
forehead with its heel. A shrug of her shoulders. "As I was
saying ..."
Grace
took her hand. "All systems go, Bessie dear. No worries."
"Humph.
You say."
"I
say."
"And
Bessie was a cow's name. Some company's mascot, she was. Before your
time, I suspect."
A
laugh from Grace. "Ever hear of Eagle Brand Condensed Milk?"
she said. "A staple for kids growing up in Hawaii."
"Eagle
Brand ... And?"
"A
Borden product. Their mascot was a cow whose name was Elsie, not
Bessie."
"That's
the one. Big brown eyes. They had a real cow, too. Did parades and
such. Fell out of the back of a truck."
Laughing
now, sidling through the doorway.
"What
you dredge up."
"Not
just me, dear. 'We.'" Elizabeth patted Grace's hand, then
entwined her arm in the crook of Grace's elbow. "Definitely we."
She leaned her head against the young woman's shoulder. The kitchen
was still warm from the cooling oven; and Elizabeth caught the sweet
scent of cilantro and tomato, the earthy tang of the corn meal.
"Umm," she said.
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