American Dreams (Juumbled and The Scandinavian)

[The Scandinavian]

The stink of fish guts and the piss-like smell exuded by all tanneries for God knew what reason assaulted his nostrils, bringing a smile to his face as the screaming seagulls above his head did theirs to announce the return of the Royal Fortune into port. Damn, but it was good to be home.

"Secure the mooring lines!" Hiram finally bellowed, making a bit of a show of it, watching Mr. Williams and Mr... Hands? scramble to double-check their knots on the wooden pier below him under Mr. Henderson's careful inspection, fresh from the rowboat sent ahead to make sure they were ready to tie her down to the docks before landfall. Shoddy work for an experienced sailor, but not bad for a couple of greenhands making land for the first time. The second mate had made noises about keeping them on, and there was some sense to it.

Henderson only made them redo the knots twice while the crewmen-on-deck took a short break, watching with amusement, before the words "Mooring lines secure!" were called back across the railing.

And that was that.

Two gangplanks were lowered to the dock, and his work was done. Three years of their lives, and the fruits of their labor were now being carried out of the hold and loaded off between the cleats by crewmen who could not have been more eager to see it stowed away in a tidy warehouse so they could collect their pay and return to the world with something to show for all their toil.

As the first mate Hiram's own wages were already in his pocket, signed and sealed between two glasses of brandy in a moment of geniality by the captain the night before. Letters of assurance accepted by any bank in the West Indies, for several times more schilling than he had ever had to his name before put together. He would need to speak to a lawyer about finding worthwhile investments for such a fortune, and he very, very much looked forward to it. This money would be the bedrock upon which he built the rest of his life, of that he was determined.

Even moreso considering what it had cost. Some of the merriment went out of his eyes, remembering the first errand he had promised himself to make upon landfall.

Stepping down the plank behind Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Minks each carrying a barrel of hard-won whale blubber to be refined into oil, he began making his way up the docks, taking a moment to adjust to the solid wooden pier under his feet. Like every other sailor under the sun, his gait was slightly bowlegged after years of keeping his knees loose and his feet squared to compensate for the sway of the ocean, giving him a natural and unconscious swagger as he strode down the wharf even though his face and thoughts were solemn, his right hand going into his thick grey jacket, clutching a letter that weighed heavier in his pocket than any number of shillings.

Hiram was in no hurry to deliver the news, but to dally and take his sweet time would be cowardly and discourteous as well.

He struck an impressive figure marching past the fishermen and tanners and curious faces of New Brighton without seeing them, tall and broad-shouldered with long legs, his tan, weather-beaten face and cropped blonde hair partially hidden under the brim and shadow of a flat cap, jaw clenched heavy under his collar and narrow chin covered with a short, sculpted beard and moustache, having eschewed the characteristic sideburns common to sailors and men of the fleet. In his early thirties, perhaps, though it was always hard to tell with men who worked for a living. A young, strong man with a hard look to him.

But what made people step aside and give him respectful berth was the purposeful, resigned look in his icy blue eyes as he set one foot in front of the other, remembering the directions he had been given and comparing them with his vague memory of the city's layout while abjectly refusing to feel the shame and guilt tugging at his heart. A single small silhouette failed to see him coming and he brushed past her without really looking, muttering a flat "Pardon, miss." in a deep, gravelly voice as he continued on his way, almost like a machine.

What had the kid said about his sister's living situation? At the time it had just been the excited chattering of a boy feeling like a man for the first time in his life, hoping to bond by baring his entire short life's story in the cabin over a mug of sour ale, give or take a few embellishments. Now Hiram dearly wished he had listened more closely. But then, perhaps it was a mercy that he had not.

 

[Jumbled]

Life was nothing short of a delicate balancing act for one Miss Eleanor Harriet Green. Called “Ellie” by her brother and “Cow” more often by her drunkard of a husband, she was glad to be away, tending to her brother’s home; their old family home, really. He owned their parents' old farm property— God rest them— complete with chickens, goats and several larger livestock, cared for by the same two people she’d known as a child, Henry and Rosie. They were getting on in their years, but they were afforded their own living space on the property in a smaller building off to the side and comfortable with their living situation. The inheritance would only stretch for so long, however, and her brother had never been interested in becoming a proper gentleman, even if her parents had tried desperately to groom him into the ideal courter. He rejected it all, sticking to farm work and romping in the hay with visiting cousins— second cousins really. Ellie had caught them once and wished she hadn’t.

It was only after Arthur was facing the full expenses of maintaining such a place that he decided to do something proper with his life. It hadn’t been what Eleanor expected though. Why he chose to go whale hunting, of all things, she’d never understand. He assured her the money was there. But Ellie had her own reservations and a fear of water. She couldn’t swim, so perhaps she was a bit biased. The lake further out on the property was always something he and the visiting family would splash around in, but ever since he’d held her under for longer than she cared to remember as a young girl, she avoided it entirely.

While Arthur rejected the customs her parents wished him to learn, she studied to become a proper lady. They were middle class if she was being generous, but they were always told to mimic the wealthy. It was common enough for people of their stature to want to mold themselves to seem more important than what they were. She could tell it irritated the Higher Class folks. They always seemed so self-important to Ellie. At the time, her only job was to do what was expected of her, playing the piano— though crudely— knitting, horseback riding (which wasn’t nearly as bad as her musical talents) and educating herself enough to know how to care for a husband. If only her parents hadn’t hastily pushed her off onto the first man that came knocking on their humble farmhouse door.

Baxter Green seemed like a well enough man to them. He’d displayed the proper means to care for their daughter at the time. He knew how to put on a good show, she supposed, at least in that time. Baxter turned to the drink more heavily after their first year of marriage. Ellie suspected her miscarriage had pushed him to such decisions, but he never crawled his way out of the hole he’d dug himself. She still felt a sense of guilt about the entire situation. Perhaps if she’d been a stronger woman—

Their own home was in town on the slightly poorer side of the city. She didn’t care to stay there. She and Baxter had to move from their more elegant abode into that grungy little shack after his habits of squandering their funds away proved to be problematic. It was cold and empty and all of the help had been let go, along with their social status, before Arthur had left on his voyage of becoming a sailor, or whatever it was he was trying to do. Her brother was sensitive to her. He’d found her with a black eye one visit. Baxter stopped coming home so frequently after that. She assumed her brother threatened him. If there was one thing Arthur could do well, it was stringing up a pig. She had no doubt such images were painted into her husband’s mind. Arthur would often invite her out to stay in their old house. She knew he took pity on her. She didn’t mind it so long as it meant she was allowed to go back home.

Eleanor was fortunate to find a position as a teacher in town. Luckily their family name still held some weight in the community, even if she was currently a Green. She’d be a Turner again if she could. The small income that she made went straight into her husband’s pockets. She always tucked a little away before he staggered his way into the house, though it was rare she even stayed there anymore. It was rarer yet for her to even know if Baxter was even still alive until he came looking for her. She’d stopped returning to that run down shack a year after Arthur’s departure. If Baxter wanted to find her, he would belligerently arrive there to be met by dear Henry or the poor, unsuspecting Rosie.

The air felt just a little crisper that day as Eleanor walked toward the docks. She’d heard chatter that the Whalers would be docking and she was sure her brother was a part of that crew. The Royal Fortune sounded like the name of the ship she’d remembered. It was possible she’d made some snide remark about it in regards to his ambitions and unrealistic dreams. She walked much like a sophisticated woman would, though she was dressed far plainer than the typical woman walking around. Teachers weren’t allowed to look dolled up with bows and sashes— it was considered a distraction to the young minds. It suited her, anyway, as the clothes she wore cost far less and were easier to maintain. Her frame was still visibly hourglass in shape, her corset only creating finer lines to her figure under the heavy gray fabric of her dress. The sleeves were only just puffy enough to stay off of her shoulders, hardly comparable to the woman in blue that had just passed by, heading off toward the shops. Ellie’s distracted hazel eyes caused her to misstep. She bumped her side into a large man. The top of her head only just met the level of his chin, or maybe mouth. She hadn’t stood near him for long enough to tell. She excused herself, a hand tucking a stray curl of mahogany hair behind her ear. She’d pinned it back, but those smaller spirals loved to escape and fall around her face.

The docks were bustling with activity. Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to find any resemblance of Arthur. She supposed he might have changed a little. Three years was enough time for him to become more muscular, or maybe even grow a massive beard. She wondered what it would be like to see him again. She’d missed him so and she had much to tell him; so many stories to share over a drink and meal. She’d wandered around, inquiring about him to anyone that looked as though they’d come from a boat, but any mention of her brother only granted her unsure shrugs of their shoulders or a confused look that then turned into them needing her out of their way so that they could move cargo. Eleanor pursed her lips together and considered where he might have gone off to. Surely he’d want to see her. That dreadful shack was only a few blocks away, perhaps he’d headed in that direction to find her first. It was possible they’d crossed paths and she hadn’t even noticed. She was sure she might have looked a little different, too. She was three years older. Her hair was longer, she’d lost a good deal of weight, looking a touch too thin. With her destination in mind, Ellie set off toward her house, the anticipation of seeing Arthur carrying her feet forward outweighing the fear of Baxter being home.

 

[The Scandinavian]

Hiram's resolution to stick to his errand lasted about eight streets before a cart laden with ripe oranges came into view and momentarily made him forget about Arthur and his damn sister. After several months of hard tack, maggoty bread, water-thickened stew and just the occasional dried grapes his senses veritably screamed at the brilliant color, and the powerful fragrance. Eight pence paid for one, and his heart lightened a little as he continued his journey while efficiently peeling the delicious fruit, sucking every drop of juice from his fingers as he did, the acidic sweetness exploding in his mouth.

A little ways from the sea, the ever-present smell of salt and the stench of harbor had lessened, and his nose was starting to pick up some of the subtler nuances of city life, for better and worse. Say what you might about the hygiene of a whaling vessel, but at least his men had never gotten to empty chamberpots onto the deck as people did in the streets from their doors and windows, or stack the manure from their horses in carts waiting to be driven out and sold on the surrounding farms, stinking the city up in the meantime.

But even so, underneath the disgusting odors inherent to all human cohabitation were the scents of his home. Of good beer and merrymaking, drifting out of alehouses and clinging to the clothes of flushed faces passing him by. Of sweet candies and oven-baked apples sold from stands to pretty young misses and well-dressed gentlemen who could afford such indulgences on a day as dreary as this. Of freshly baked breads and sugared pastries wafting through the air from homes and bakeries on every street where good, hardworking women filled people's bellies with their labor and care, the truest sign there was of a healthy community.

The place had not changed-much in his absence, and that was a comfort all to itself as he followed the vaguely remembered directions on this morbid little quest. Still the improvement to his mood began to erode as the attractive, roomy townhouses he had envied as a child gave way to more and more rotting wood and the smell of shit intensified. Having sailed up one side of the Atlantic and down the other, he might have seen shantytowns that rivaled the Boardwalk in forlornness and decrepitude. But Hiram couldn't for the life of him have said which one.

A section of the town stretching awkwardly into the marshes where almost every step sank your boots into the mud and several houses had to be built on wooden platforms to have any chance of remaining standing, hence the name. Nobody would live here if they could anywhere else. Nothing but small and ramshackle buildings of dour grey timber, heavy with mold and lined by shoddy and inconsistent fencing and depressing attempts at vegetable gardens clearly fertilized by the inhabitants themselves.

The women of the town had given Hiram curious looks, and nice, polite girls who had been taught the dangers of encouraging a ruffian like himself had blushed and averted their eyes. Here, their gazes followed him brazenly, hungrily. Painted, sad creatures tried to preen from the sides of the street, gauging the weight of his purse or trying to catch his gaze with glassy eyes, all sharp angles and badly concealed bruises. As if he couldn't guess what would await him a few steps down the dirt alleys half of the whores were guarding.

Not that he wasn't tempted. If the taste of orange juice on his tongue was bliss after months at sea then some trim would be heaven itself, and the girls who walked these streets must be desperate enough to do just about anything he might fancy. At least the ones who weren't hoping to see his brains splattered all over the muddy ground for a few pennies.

At the same time, there was something revolting in the thought of celebrating becoming a man of substance by romping with some unperfumed boardwalk harlot with a dead man's letter in his pocket. Maybe tonight after renting a decent room and eating a decent meal he would visit one of the more respectable establishments in town to cheer himself up. The Captain had glowingly recommended the Amber Rose for its "civilized atmosphere". Perhaps hinting not to go and immediately ruin his reputation by shooting his wages on cheap whores and rum like a bilge rat.

Still his brow furrowed as he moved deeper into the Boardwalk, past dogs rooting around piles of trash and rubbish and windows with dirty, pale faces peering out at him. Arthur had seemed like such a nice kid. The kind his own Mama and Papa had encouraged him to rub shoulders with if he could as a young boy. What was his sister doing living in this dump? The kid had mentioned a husband, but that was as far as he had gotten before Hiram had tuned him out, trying to concentrate on his cards.

Besides the confusion was a niggling tug at his conscience. He had imagined delivering the sad news and the letter to a rosy-cheeked madam surrounded by a bushel of healthy children and a well-to-do man to help her take the blow. Not to a destitute.

Soon enough he stood before a small, ugly cabin that a neighbor had helpfully pointed out to him as the Greens house in return for a penny. Not the worst on the street by a long shot, but still almost as decrepit as the dockside shack he had been reared in himself. The door looked like it might once have fit its frame, but the moisture in the air had made both expand against each other, leaving the door curving slightly outward as if it was being squeezed out of the opening. No doubt it bound like hell.

Nervously, and trying to tamp down on it, Hiram reached up to take off his cap, clutching it in his hand as he fished out Arthur's letter as it had been found while clearing the kid's bunk once they'd given up the search. Best get it over with, and come what may. His large, scarred knuckles rapped on the door once, the sound eerily loud on the sad, mostly deserted street.

"Mrs. Green?" he called out in a heavy, deep voice, trying not to sound too authoritative and scare the poor thing to death. "Mrs. Green? I have news of your brother!"

He raised his hand to knock a second time, and paused at the wet plucking sound of footsteps in mud and a sharp intake of breath not far behind him. Naturally wary of an ambush in a neighborhood like this, he turned quickly to catch sight of whoever seemed to have snuck up on him.

 

[Jumbled]

Unbeknownst to her, Elanor had followed the same path to the sad shack on the boardwalk as the man she carelessly bumped into at the docks had— without stopping for fruit. Her belly was full (enough) from a light breakfast at the farm, hours earlier. Even if she had been hungry, the stench that consumed that particular section of town killed any appetite that may have existed for her in that time. Ellie had the right mind to cover her face with her handkerchief that hid, tucked away in the small handbag that dug into her side from the force in which her elbow pushed at it. She walked as though she was trying to keep her body as small as possible, her limbs hugging her torso as she went. It’d been a long time since she’d made the trek into the territory she encroached upon. But, if this was the route Arthur thought to take in order to find her, she didn’t want to waste a moment longer. She trudged on, looking from side to side as she went in search of that dusty haired boy that might have come back more of a man than she remembered.

Elanor’s feet managed to land into the indents that the stranger’s boots left in the mud on occasion, his tracks far larger than her own could ever aim to be. If she had made a conscious effort to match each one of his boot-prints, perhaps it would have prevented the other moments where her ankle nearly twisted from the sudden sliding sensation that threatened to take her forcefully down to the ground. His stride was longer than hers, anyway, so attempting such a task would have been difficult. She looked down with an agitated stare, her hazel eyes consumed by the dark, murky gray of the mud that held her foot hostage like a glue, suctioning her against the thick pull of its slimy texture. Straightening her foot wasn’t an easy task, her once decent shoes were covered in dark muck. If that mutt across the way hadn’t startled her with its insufferable snarling and barking, she might have paid better mind to her own footing. The dogs around the boardwalk were always questionable with rib cages showing and cuts and scrapes that indicated they’d had a scuff or two, she never knew if they were vicious or just products of their environment. The animals on the farm were tended to far better than the likes of them, but she wasn’t into the habit of taking on strays or projects. Elanor had enough to worry about. Besides, Arthur was always the one sneaking new pets into the barn, thinking he could just blend their existence in with the rest of the animals as if no one would notice what he’d done. Ellie sighed thoughtfully at her brother’s boyish ways. He was quite the character.

Passing through the more questionable parts of town, Elanor averted her gaze from the other woman patrolling their turf. She knew what those girls did behind closed doors, or perhaps not even that; at times, a dirty, side alley would do. She swallowed hard as she pushed through, not wanting them to speak to her. More and more she found herself eager to find Arthur and leave. She was aware that her legal home was in those slums with Baxter Green, but she refused to stay. She wouldn’t be with such a person that stole everything from her; her life, her name, her earnings, and even a child. That was a sore enough subject, but Elanor took solace in the fact that she hadn’t reproduced with such a vile human. There was no scenario in which she considered bearing his young a good thing. Perhaps she just wasn’t suited to be a mother. What was it they said? Those that can, do, and those that cannot, teach. She was around plenty of children to know she wasn’t a monster or ill suited— maybe just not mother-material.

Her pace slowed as she neared the Green residence. Ellie heard the distant sounds of knocking and a voice she didn’t recognize, but her mind was hopeful it was her brother. She pulled the skirt of her dress with her hands, helping her feet, giving them just a touch more freedom to wade through the marshes of the inhospitable lands that supported the poorest of the poor families and vagabonds alike. The decaying wood and broken roof of her unremarkable “home” were in sight, but the man at her door was much too large to be Arthur. He’d removed his cap and his display of fair hair was a clear enough indication— along with his broad shoulders that made him seem as though he was capable of lifting that entire hovel up out of the mud. He was tall, and for some reason, familiar, though Ellie hadn’t realized he was the very same person she’d run into earlier that morning.

She took two more steps. The squishing of the sludge beneath her feet gave her away as well as the sharp gasping of air she wished she hadn’t breathed in. She could almost taste the squalor on her tongue. The man turned and as she gazed up into the liquid depths of the ocean in the form of beautiful blue eyes, her hands trembled against the fabric of her dress. “What news? Where’s Arthur?” she asked, her voice nearly as shaky as her hands. It was already clear. She knew the answer. She saw the paper he clutched with his large hand. He was a sailor, skin tanned from days out at sea being beaten by sun rays and salt spray. She dared to take another step, but it was clear her knees would rather buckle beneath her slender frame. Her expression was pleading him to change the answer that waited on his tongue. She panicked. He wasn’t going to change his mind on the matter; there was no changing it. Arthur was gone.

He was—

Ellie stepped back, retreating from the reality of the situation as panic climbed its way into her stomach and up her throat, threatening to make her vomit. Her already pale skin flushed before turning a more sickly white. It would only be moments more before she fainted, landing in the tar-like ooze that swallowed her shoes.

 

[The Scandinavian]

Hiram whirled around, prepared to deal with some lunkhead figuing him for an easy mark, only for the spike of adrenaline and subtle excitement at the prospect of a scrap to turn into icewater in his veins. A forlorn figure, a wisp of a younger woman in modest but neat dress stumbled toward him through the mud on unsteady ankles.

Nothing about her appearance seemed to call for attention, perhaps except for the pretty reddish-brown hair that looked so very out of place in the grungy street. Everything else, from her sleeves to her stockings revealed as she lifted up her skirt, screamed propriety and restraint. The sway of those skirts and curve of her hips implied a healthy, if not bountiful body beneath, but the paleness of her skin, dark eye-sockets and the haunted expression spoke of deprivations of other kinds.

No, what froze him in his step was the emotion in her eyes, confusion and misery warring with hope and resignation at the same time. The way she looked at him as if begging him for help, begging him to make this terrible situation not so. His sister had looked at him exactly the same way, once, the morning after her wedding before departing with her new husband, the last time he had seen her in life. He barely heard the woman’s question, standing rooted to the spot in shame and dismay.

So this was the kid’s sister? A woman so respectable-looking had no place living on the boardwalk. Somewhere along the way, something terrible had clearly happened and ruined her prospects. And here he was to tell her that her lively and excitable younger brother had perished so far from home and for no reason except carelessness. He opened his mouth with no idea how to reply, and nothing came out. Not that it even mattered. In her wide, hazelnut eyes he saw the exact moment resignation won the day and she began to sway on her feet, stepping backwards as if to put distance between herself and the frightful realization that she would never see her baby brother again.

Without thinking about it his feet moved of their own accord, following her step for step, maintaining the distance between them as he fumbled in his head, grasping for the words that would lighten her distress and finding nothing, his large hands making vague, half-apologetic motions in the air before him. Which was fortunate, because if he had not already been moving forward he would never have made it to her in time to catch and steady her before landing in the disgusting mud, ruining her clothes.

As it was, he recognized the split-second she lost her balance and automatically sprang forward as he would have for any fellow seaman losing their feet in the whaling boat or too close to the ship railing, or for that matter standing in the rigging, hoping to prevent the worst from happening. One powerful arm circled around her back before she was even halfway down, arresting her fall, and the other wrapped around her skirts to keep them from settling into the dirt, leaving his face hovering a few inches above hers, bending over her while keeping her upright.

“Mrs. Green? Are you feeling poorly? Can you stand?” Hiram murmured, trying to right her and set her back on her feet. After all these years at sea, he’d almost forgotten that women sometimes did this. When her knees then immediately buckled and she started sliding down and out of his grip, he cursed softly under his breath and tightened his arm around her knees to hoist her up straight off the ground, holding her upper body against his warm chest.

“Guess not.” he grumbled, looking down into her petite face and seeing her eyes closed and lips softly parted.

The sight, as well as the feeling of her soft and warm feminine body pressed into his and the delicious scent of soap and woman suddenly in his nostrils sent a jolt of desire through Hiram. His mouth ran dry, and an uncomfortable tightening sensation in his pants made him shift where he stood in the mud, his mind running quick, involuntary calculations. They were alone on the street. The house seemed empty. It was early afternoon, wherever her husband was working - if he indeed did work - he would not return for hours yet. Lying limp in his arms as she was, the top of her dress stretched deliciously over her curves against his chest…

A small sound escaped from her mouth, a tiny moan of despair, and the warmth momentarily flooding his body turned ashen cold once more. Who did he think he was, even considering robbing her of more than he already had?

Guiltily, he straightened with her in his arms and turned back to the unpromising shack, stepping up to the misshapen door and kicking it open with a foot. If there had ever been an iron latch then it had long since been pried off the wood and sold, which wasn’t atypical. People living in these huts rarely owned anything worth stealing. The interior was no more attractive than the outside, dark and dank and stinking of stale beer. Bottles stood stacked against each other in the corners, almost out of the way, as if someone had half-heartedly tried to keep some semblance of order in the chaos.

The main room of the house featured a rough wooden table covered in small slips of paper and a single cheap wax candle with no stick, surrounded by two motley chairs. The papers appeared to be betting slips or tabs of some kind, covered in shorthand notes written in surprisingly neat handwriting. Adjoined to the “living room” was a tiny kitchen, no more than a simple stove filled with cold ash under a small pot of pewter, and a set of cupboards that he knew without looking would contain more rat droppings than real food. On the other side of the shack a hanging cloth separated the space from what must be the bedroom.

Moving carefully with the woman in his arms, Hiram stepped toward the table and gingerly lowered her into one of the chairs, making sure she sat securely before withdrawing, setting his cap down on the table and shrugging his coat off to hang it on the opposite chair. He habitually shored up the sleeves of his sweater, exposing thick, muscular wrists and underarms as tan as his face. Your sleeves were never dry at sea, and wet cotton could rub a man’s wrists raw over the course of a day if he kept his hands busy.

“Alright, Mrs. Green.” Hiram murmured, feeling like an idiot and an intruder but deciding that his duty to her and to the kid ran beyond just showing his face and giving her the shock of her life only to leave her where he found her.

“You just sit there and collect yourself and… I suppose I’ll try to fix you a cup of tea.” he grunted to himself, looking disdainfully at the kitchen.

Well, he’d done better with worse in his time. Smothering the urge to sigh and feel sorry for himself, he started rummaging through the pathetic provisions left on shelves above the stove where rats hadn’t managed to get to them.

 

[The Scandinavian]

“I said shut your filthy little mouth, cunt!”

Baxter growled, breathing hard between his teeth, his hips pumping with a vigour he knew he couldn’t keep up for long, ignoring the strangled sounds coming from the girl as he took her from behind. Sweat poured down his flushed cheeks, and a queasy sensation had settled in his stomach, distracting him from the desire that had overcome him just a few minutes ago.

Well, not desire exactly. He had barely given the whore a glance before pulling her behind the stack of crates, baring her rump. And smelling her up close now, a thick perfume that made his stomach churn failing to hide the stink of sex and sweat as she squirmed loosely around his cock, he wished he hadn’t. Nor had he intended to waste either his time or what little remained in his pocket on some pock-marked doxy as he shuffled homeward from the bar, cheap swill sloshing in his belly that was now taking its toll, making him want to vomit into her smelly wig as he fucked her against the wall, her skirts rolled up to her waist and rank whiffs of dried seed from previous customers teasing his nose every few thrusts.

But the way she had laid her hand on his arm as he passed by her corner… the sugar-sweetness in her voice as she made her proposal…

It had been nothing he hadn’t heard a thousand times before, of course. But tonight, for some reason, the offer of affection had seemed to spear him through the heart. Reminding him of happier times when someone had laid their hand on his arm just so, and murmured sweetness in his ear exactly like that, only meaning it. Making him feel… worthy of it.

Seconds later he’d had the slut pressed face-first into the back wall of the Seven Sirens tavern, intent on punishing her... thoroughly... for forcing those feelings upon him even for a moment. What right did women have to just prance around and tug at the strings of men’s hearts for their own amusement or gain, anyway? To lift their hopes and spirits one moment and make them feel lower than dirt the next? There was no sense or justice to it. Only cruelty. The kicking of beaten dogs. And he was going to pay back in kind.

Except now the wind was leaving him, and his once-forceful thrusts were slowing down. His hardness at the thought of smashing her into the wall, leaving splinters in her ample cleavage, had wilted between her folds until he could barely feel her around him, leaving him heaving over her back, pumping weakly against her backside on legs that threatened to buckle under him. Where had all his youthful strength gone? When had he gotten so out of shape? Had the drink and the lack of work truly left his body so weak and useless?

With a snarl of frustration and self-loathing he shoved her away, sending her reeling unto the ground, scrambling in the mud, cursing him between sobs. As she looked up into his face, glaring at him with hateful eyes, he noted the shiny trails of tears through her makeup with a bittersweet satisfaction of its own kind.

At least he had made her feel something.

“You’ll regret this, mister, I swear, you’ll-”

“Don’t even bother.” he said, ignoring her, spitting at the ground where her hiked-up skirts exposed pale thighs, hoisting up his pants to cover his own embarrassing softness. “I’m not paying for a job half-done. Next time I’ll find a real professional. Good afternoon.” He was out of the alley before she could begin another diatribe, face hot with shame and exertion and his belly still sloshing uncomfortably with beer, ignoring the disdainful looks shot at him by passersby, as if they were any better.

As if they wouldn’t rot in hell right along with him.

Baxter trudged through the city, his mind crawling with resentment and hatred. For the entire goddamn town, for leaving him poor and lonely and then judging him for it. For Ellie, for trying to abandon him instead of trusting and supporting him like a good wife should. And most of all for himself, for having wasted every opportunity and abused every friend he ever had, and blaming it on anyone but Baxter goddamn Green.

His feet took him towards home. Not because he ever wanted to see that miserable shack again, but because it was the only place on God’s earth he had left to go. The only place where he could hide from the scorn and smug superiority of his fellow man. At least for long enough clear his head and his stomach...

 

[Jumbled]

Ellie’s foot landed in a previous spot she’d once stood as she retreated from the heavy truth of her new reality. Her brother— dearest little Arthur— was dead. No longer could she recall his tormenting and teasing as she remembered the kinder moments they shared growing together. Warm summers with nights beside a fire listening to him tell tales he’d heard from the other boys at school. His hands casting shadows against the walls with this aid of the candlelight, managing to create the simplest versions of bunnies and birds, even a butterfly. His laughter. His hair all pushed to the side as he plopped down at the table for early morning breakfast, or how he always fought the heifer when it was his turn to milk her. And that silly excuse of a mustache when he first started growing it in. All of that life— gone. She tried to conjure up the memory of the last moment she saw him; of the last words they’d ever exchanged. Panic filled her lungs as she realized she didn’t know what they were. She couldn’t breathe. The corset that constrained her form to a thinner version of herself trapped her air in her chest and as she began to falter, the stranger’s arms were around her. She looked at him with eyes that were looking far back in the past, searching, not seeing him at all as he held her there. Was he speaking to her? Her breathing, if one could even call it that, was broken up in short gasps that barely delivered what she needed to her chest.

She fell. Ellie’s head slowly rolled to the right, noting how slanted her frame was against the world and how close the smell of the mud was to her face. She turned again, the tip of her nose aligned with the sailor's. Her chin tilted up— she tried to breathe, still so labored— and the soft skin of her nose brushed against his before she fell back down against the force of his arms that held her steady. He held her there so perfectly and had the circumstances of such an embrace been different, she might have made many a woman jealous. Such a stance could have been a wonderfully romantic scene to gaze upon in envy, but instead, it was tragic and painful. She couldn’t know for sure how long he’d been holding her, his questions came after what felt like many minutes to her, though it may have only been moments at the most. He tried to steady her, like she was some young chap that tripped up on the ropes at the dock, but she wasn’t clumsy. That wasn’t what was wrong. Her knees shook from the agonizing weight of life and death. It was all around her then and she felt every bit of it trying to force her into her own grave.

With little effort on his part, she was up in his arms. He was a strong man, far stronger than Baxter Green— he hadn’t even been able to carry her into their new home after they wed, and she wasn’t a large woman by any means. The whale hunter was gentle with his rough hands, callused in the way that working hands always were, holding her against the warmth of his chest and thumping heart that knocked at her ear as if to remind her that life was still happening. It was too much, however, as her consciousness left her. Her eyes shut softly as her face dropped, her lips parting as her body attempted to regulate her breathing. She was only completely gone for a minute before the smell of the sea filled her nostrils— the sea and a sweet orange. She whimpered, the sound of such was that of pain and loss. She curled an arm around her waist as she pulled closer to the man’s chest.

He began to move while carrying her with heed. She kept her eyes shut. So, as he kicked open the door to the dreadful little shack that her husband called his own— though it was clear his home was out there with the harlots of the back alleys and taverns— Ellie hadn’t pieced it all together. The inside of that place smelled of rotting wood and stale beer, another stench that threatened to make her vomit. It coated the floorboards and walls, along with stains from where Baxter had pissed and purged his body of the spirits any other way he needed to in those times. Elanor's arm tightened around herself as if to somehow comfort her unsettled stomach.

Her rump met the lopsided cushion of the sad chair with frayed fabrics and splintered wood as she was set down. Her fingers found the strangers arms as though she was suddenly using him to steady herself. She clung to him with the grip of a terrified child before she remembered herself and released him with trembling fingers that broke away from his jacket. Who was she to grab a strange man? What would people say? She blinked slowly as her eyes adjusted to the low light of the putrid place. The clouds outside dulled the small trickles of light that poured in through the gaps of the walls that barely held the place together. His hat was placed on the table in front of her and as he worked to remove his coat she became more aware of herself. Ellie pushed against the edge of the table, wary of even touching that. She hadn’t stepped foot inside that home for over a year by that time. She had never intended to come back unless Baxter worked up the will to drag her back kicking and screaming. So why had the stranger taken her inside? Was she wrong? Was he a friend of Baxter’s? Had this been some elaborate trick?

He pushed up his sleeves and wandered off to a nearly abandoned kitchen. Ellie couldn't attest to anything he would find in there. “No, stop.” she said. Her voice was weak but still demanded his attention. She couldn’t yet stand properly though she’d already set out to try as she pushed the chair away from the table with her hands. Elanor’s feet were already working to support herself as her eyes darted around the dark house like a bird looking for an escape from a cage. “I can’t stay here. I can’t be here.” her voice was thick with anxiety but it was different from when she questioned him about Arthur. Her tone was that of fear— fear of staying long enough to run into the man she never wished to see again in her life. The man that ruined her. The man that had forsaken her. The man she was sure she’d never loved after all, even if there had been moments when she’d tried to really see him. Baxter Green.

She looked around the room, suddenly worried the drunkard might be just behind the curtains that hid the room. He could be passed out there, lying in his own filth, and she wouldn’t have been surprised. He was once a man of society. His neat scribbling on the papers lying on the table and the stacks of his trash and bottles were the only remnants of that man he once was. He’d fallen so hard. Ellie hugged her stomach with her right arm as the knuckles on her left hand turned white from how strongly she gripped the edge of the table. “I have to go. Take me to the farm. Arthur’s farm. Our home.” she pleaded with much haste. He had to understand that she didn’t belong there. This was never going to be her life. She refused. She’d rather kill Baxter if it came down to it. She’d considered it before though she was uncertain of her own strength— both physically and mentally.

"Please—" she was practically begging him. She didn't even know his name. Had he said it out there when all she could hear was the screaming in her own mind from the loss of her brother? Ellie's fingers reached for his cap, taking it from the table's surface as if to better convince him to get dressed to leave.

 

[The Scandinavian]

Hiram was lifting down a small tin pot of something that could be anything but was hopefully tea, revealing more gambling slips and shoddily written promissory notes tucked underneath. He was beginning to form an impression of what kind of man the poor creature’s husband was, and the reason for her fall in fortunes from the healthy, happy home Arthur had certainly come from.

It was a typical habit of compulsive gambling men, he knew. His father had been much the same, leaving notes and letters of demand hidden away behind shelves and under furniture, and even in the lining of his clothes, where they could be put safely out of mind while still telling yourself that they would someday be addressed. When he had died, they had gone through the house to try to tally up the debt the man had accrued over the years, and to get an idea who had still owed him money. It had taken years, and been a messy business indeed to put it all to rest. And all that uncertainty and hardship had more than taken its toll on Mother.

His lip curled at the thought of a young woman as sweet and hopeful as her brother given into the power of such a failure of a man. He had seen it often enough not to be surprised, of course, but everyone knew that it was the foremost duty of a husband to provide for his family.

Starting or taking charge of one and refusing to support it was beyond sin. It was a rejection of your purpose as a man walking God’s earth. Hiram had struggled all his life to set himself above such weakness, knowing that if he didn’t, others would pay the price as he, Mother and his sisters had.

The young woman’s words suddenly snapped him back to the moment, and he turned on the spot to regard her pushing herself up from the chair, looking around with the hunted expression of a cornered animal. Thinking that it was just a fit, like the fainting spell, another manifestation of her sorrow combined with already frayed nerves, he opened his mouth to try to calm her down.

“Mrs. Green?” his voice was deep and harsh, even as he tried to moderate his tone into something soothing. He refused to be impatient with an overwrought young woman. “I am Hiram Sharp, First Mate of the Royal Fortune. Please calm yourself, I bear you no ill intentions and I’m certain a cup of tea would...”

He trailed off, looking into her eyes. They were wild, of course, but also seemed clear, and were not focusing on him but instead at at the objects in the room as if each one held a terrible secret to which he was not privy. How sure was he that this was even actually her house? Perhaps he had made a mistake bringing her in here after all, though he did not see what else there had been to do.

As her shaking fingers curled around the tip of his hat, not to steal it, apparently, but rather as if to… rescue it?... from the table, he put the pot back down on the uneven kitchen table and stepped back toward her, keeping an eye on her stance in case her legs decided to buckle again.

“Pardon if I’ve made a mistake,” he said slowly, beginning to accept that this whole business was going to be more complicated - and take up more time - than he had thought. The words came out hesitantly, not so much apologetic as just buying time for him to think. “I can certainly arrange for a carriage, if you’ve somewhere you need to be…”

What was going on? He had never heard of a housewife who refused to be in her own house, if indeed it was hers. Still moving frustratingly slowly, worried that a sudden movement might spook her into fleeing out the door, he began to edge back around the table across from her to where his jacket hung on the chair.

 

[Jumbled]

She’d managed to get his attention. Good. Elanor listened to him, learning an important piece of information about the stranger: his name. She stared at him in the moment he'd said it; Hiram Sharp. He followed it with his title from the ship he’d worked on, same as Arthur. She wasn’t the most knowledgeable when it came to boats, but First Mate sounded rather important. She guessed it was only a step down from being the captain, otherwise, why say it?

“Elanor Green, formerly Elanor Turner. But I think you know that.” she said quietly. Even in her turmoil, she couldn’t forget her manners. She was a teacher, after all. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though the circumstances are— not ideal.” she said quietly. The silence that filled the dank air weighed against her as she clung to the table’s edge. She was back to staring at the room, her mind reeling to unpleasantries from stories she’d never wish to tell another soul. No one needed to know what she’d endured in such a place.

Luckily her message came across well enough to the man; to Hiram. She wasn’t clear on how intelligent he was yet, but he seemed to understand her well enough to put the pot down and abandon his mission to create tea out of rat droppings and shriveled up roaches. There was no way Baxter kept nonalcoholic drinks in the shoddy little shack. And trusting the tap for water seemed dangerous, too, on the Boardwalk.

Her second hand left the table to better hold his hat. Her fingers kneaded the fabric idly as she watched him move closer. “There was no real mistake made on your part, Mr. Sharp. Your assumptions on where I should be living are accurate, but I’ve abandoned this place.” she explained cautiously. It wasn’t typical for a wife to leave her husband and the scrutiny that came from doing such a thing was typically something she tried to avoid. Her reputation, however, was already damaged to a point of no return. The town knew— they all talked. If she wasn’t teaching her students, she simply went back to the farm to avoid the stares and whispers that came from their constant gossiping.

“Life is a cruel mistress, Mr. Sharp. It’s not necessary to keep you longer than I have, but—” her emotions were unbalanced. The fear of running into her husband was consuming her thoughts as the denial that followed the comprehension of her baby brother dying out at sea became buried in the back of her mind. But as she remembered why the tall Hiram Sharp was standing before her, she looked lost for words. What was she going to do? They were counting on Arthur’s earnings to fund the farm for years to come.

Ellie wasn’t blind to the shape of Hiram’s arms as he slid each one back into his jacket. She imagined working on a boat conditioned a man to become strong like that. Would her brother have become more muscular and toned like Mr. Sharp? She looked away, her eyes fixed on the sad floorboards of the home as her chest felt like it was drowning out there with him. “I’ve been caring for our family farm. It was left to Arthur after our parents passed. I’ll be the last of the Turners, then, unless my brother sired some children I don’t know about along the way. I really must be getting back. If you—” she thought to dismiss Hiram, to let him be off on his way, abandoning whatever responsibility he felt from being the First Mate— the reason she assumed he was the one showing up to tell her of Arthur. But, having a strong man accompanying her, someone that Baxter wouldn’t be able to fight sober— it was a comforting thought. “Mr. Sharp, you’re welcome to come see the farm while it’s still under our care. I suppose I’ll have to arrange to sell it somehow— unless they just don’t learn about my brother’s death—” it was clear her mind was cycling through a lot at once.

Her eyes cleared and focused on him suddenly. “Oh, your hat.” she said as she reached her hands forward, offering it to Hiram.

 

[The Scandinavian]

“Pleasure’s mine, Mrs.” Hiram grunted, looking at her with a mix of curiosity and concern. He listened to her hurried explanation as he slipped the jacket back over his shoulders - easily twice the breadth of hers. She seemed to have composed herself, and he reordered his opinion of the woman in front of him as she spoke with an even and steady tone, even as she anxiously molested his cap with her fingers.

Pushing aside the embarrassment of a lady feeling the need to explain her situation to him, a stranger, he kept his face carefully blank. Especially as she entertained the notion of a bastard child born to her brother. What men did at sea, at war, or in faraway lands was simply not for the ears of women. A memory flashed behind his eyes of the amused Captain gently rejecting the kid’s red-faced request to marry one dark-eyed beauty the day before they set sail from Maui.

“But Captain,” Arthur’s young voice had rung out in the soft light of the officer’s lounge, slightly rougher than the day he had left New Brighton. “Ms. Iolana has been very kind to me. She washes and mends my clothes and she lets me...” here the kid’s face had turned red as a tomato, and his voice skipped. “And she refuses to take a penny for anything! Sir!”

Captain Bordon had taken the excuse, as he often did, to break out the brandy and speak to one of his sailors in place of the young man’s father, reminding him of his family and career and what sort of interruption an impulsive marriage would be to both, especially on a deckhand's pay, and finally urging the boy to insist on compensating his girls to avoid such feelings of obligation in the future. Hiram had seen this Iolana for himself the next day, and could not begrudge the kid for attaching himself to such a pretty face. Nor had he stifled his laughter when the boy embarrassedly admitted that on their final night together, she had not proven so obstinate to getting paid after all.

Telling Mrs. Green that she might indeed have illegitimate nieces and nephews scattered around the North Atlantic would have been wildly inappropriate and disrespectful, and would not help her situation in any case.

So he simply let her continue talking and looking him over, privately wondering why she had not asked directly about her brother’s death yet. He had, in fact, spent the entire walk here preparing himself to be forced to relive the boy’s disappearance, but Mrs. Green seemed almost about to send him on his way! Hiram was about to decline the offer to see her family’s farm, disgustingly grateful to be let off the hook and not have to go into further detail about the whole matter, when he finally connected the things she was saying to each other and the penny finally dropped.

Arthur’s death had ruined their livelihood.

His stomach lurched, and the repugnant odors of the shack seemed to assault him all at once. What had he been thinking? Every family’s future lay in their young men. Just because he had struck out on his own with no family to think of didn’t mean that the kid had set sail simply to enrich himself… What a goddamn mess. Saving her from a nasty fall and carrying her into this shelter was no recompense for what he now knew he had taken from her.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Green.” He said, a greenish tint creeping over his cheeks, unnoticeable in the dank cabin. “My old mum would turn in her grave if she saw me abandon you to a long journey all by yourself after carrying you such dreadful news, and forcing you to come to such a place.” It was a complete lie. His mother would only have scolded him for wasting his time attending another man’s impoverished wife. Nor did he think of himself as the sort of man who needlessly coddled women.

But steady as her voice might be, Eleanor’s face was still pale and her gaze still flickering back and forth between him and the filthy objects in the room. She was certainly in no state to carry herself out of the town. And the twinging guilt in his stomach demanded that he do… something before he left her to pursue his own interests as a made man.

“Ahem. You’ll have to give our driver directions. Unless you came to town in a cart of your own?” he reached out to accept his crumpled hat, straightening it guiltily before donning it and hesitantly offering her his strong, hard arm to take her outside. It was far from the done thing, of course, but she was in no state to traverse the soggy ground unassisted, and it was probably still better than offering to carry her all the way out of the Boardwalk.

“What sort of… farm… do you run?” he asked, having no real experience with the concept.

 

[Jumbled]

Elanor looked away as he called her ‘Misses.’ She hadn’t been fond of the sound of it for a long time and wished she wasn’t linked to such a man as Baxter Green. Hiram wouldn’t understand such a thing, though. He couldn’t. He hadn’t been there to realize what a waste of life that man could be in the times when she had needed him most. Ellie hated her husband. She hated the things he held dear to him— his booze, whores and gambling— and she hated how he’d tricked her family into giving her away to him. She hated him for the lack of support after the loss of their unborn child, as well as how he’d cost them their nice home and status in society. So, as Hiram called her that, a subtle flare of her nostrils and a grinding of her back teeth helped her keep her tongue silent. At least he had manners.

She felt his eyes on her. He was no doubt wondering many things about her. Elanor took a moment to meet his gaze with her own, unable to make out much in the way of their true colors in the shack. Would he see her pain and sorrow hidden behind the mask of strength and willpower that continued to drive her forward in life? People didn’t often bother to look beyond the surface. It was easier to ignore suffering.

He agreed. She sighed with relief before she’d even realized it. She wasn’t processing anything properly. She needed to get away before she lost her chance. “Oh, is that so? Your mother would be a unique one, then. Most mothers are only concerned about their boys finding a woman of— not that you’re a boy, mind you. Oh!” she suddenly exclaimed in horror as she looked at him wide-eyed. “I’m keeping you from someone, aren’t I? I’m so sorry. My mind isn’t with me, I’m afraid.” she said as she brought slender fingers to her brow.

“I— Uh— I have the farm cart and horse parked near the school house. I normally bicycle there, but I was sure Arthur would have a good deal of belongings and would enjoy the familiar ride home.” her voice nearly cracked as she forced her words out. “Come, let’s be on our way out of here,” she said as she turned for the door. She was a little afraid to go out first. Her hand hovered at the door. What would happen if she opened it and Baxter was on the other side? Her hesitance was clear as she froze in place.

Hiram, as if to her rescue, offered her his arm to hold. She looked at him with surprise. Men were hardly kind to her anymore. She parted her lips as though to say something, but closed them again as she slowly slipped her fingers around the width of his arm. Even with a light pressure against him, she could feel his strength. She averted her gaze, keeping her eyes fixed to the floor. She couldn’t be found staring at him for longer than she’d already been earlier.

“The farm? You haven’t been on one?” she asked him. He had managed to pull her out of her thoughts again with his question. “It’s mainly harvestable foods, with hired hands, to be clear. Though normally we’ve stayed very family run, with the exception of some help. It needs a good deal of work, however.” she muttered. “Some of it is to our own benefit— the livestock are bred and raised to become meat later on, or dairy cows for milks and cheese. We have a small orchard, too, mainly pears and apples.” she mentioned.

 

[The Scandinavian]

Seeing her shoulders sag a little in relief as he agreed to escort her, Hyram felt another stab of guilt and pity. There was no mistaking the undercurrent of anxiety and unhappiness in this woman, however much she clung to her composure. Even besides her grief. She had obviously looked to her brother’s return to help set things right in the world, a thought that made him feel lower than dirt.

On the other hand, her words - and even more so what she left unsaid - betrayed a wherewithal and strength of character he was not used to seeing in a lady so young. He knew that marriage had a way of hardening the female spirit, or snuffing it out, depending on the husband and his circumstances. That she had emerged with this kind of willpower from a situation as deplorable as the image this hole of a shack painted spoke well for her character.

And while things may be different in the polite society of the American middle-class, any man who had worked as he did, always, always counting on the strength and reliability of the man next to him, knew a healthy respect for those who carried their tragedies without trying to burden others.

“I’ve been to a farm,” he said defensively as he reached for the rough handle and gave the painfully deformed door a hard shove, yielding a short, high groan of wood against wood as it opened before them, revealing nothing but the depressing sight of the Boardwarlk on a cold Autumn day. “just never worked on one.” Or cared about one, for that matter. Hiram had occasionally run deliveries to the farms around the town and even a couple of the smaller villages as a boy. Just one among many chores and odd jobs that had only lasted until people started counting the wares he arrived with and comparing them to what had supposedly been sent.

He might even have delivered to her family once or twice, though he would have been a gangly little creature, at least compared to the man he had grown into. And she would have been little more than a babe in arms, if she had been born at all. At the time, the endless toiling in the fields, the stink of manure and the sun beating down on the flat, monotonous countryside had all seemed far from appealing. And after joining his first fishing crew at 13, he had never bothered to scam merchants and farmers like that again.

In fact, he had rarely had the opportunity to drive a cart since. Let alone with a woman at his side, however awkward the situation. And not at all for the past three years. As a boy, the slowly passing landscape and dead silence of the road had near driven him mad, but thinking back now, there was an undeniable tug on his heart at the thought of the country of his birth rolling past as the ground crunched under the wheels, driven forward by man’s mastery over beast.

And while he had not glanced over a farm in many years, her description did remind him that the food had always been fresh and filling and delicious. Not to mention, pears and apples… The orange he had picked up from the stall had been a shock to his senses, and her words made him long to reacquaint himself with yet more of the sweet, simple pleasures of land. Perhaps this little venture would be good for more than tormenting his conscience, after all.

“And the only thing you’re keeping me from is retrieving my luggage and getting a stiff drink, Mrs. Green.” he tried to joke. “The Fortune isn’t going anywhere for a couple weeks at least, and delaying my vengeful return to the taverns of New Brighton until nightfall would be doing God’s work, as I’m sure they’d agree.”

A part of Hiram felt meanly jealous of Arthur for having a sweet sister to welcome him home after those long years at sea. Which was dumn as all hell, of course, but no less true for all that. He steadied her as they left the… ‘porch’, he supposed, and tried to steer them vaguely in the direction he remembered the schoolhouse to be. Unless a new one had been built in the years since he had been thrown out, after it had become obvious that no amount of beatings would ever get him to sit still and listen.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss.” he said more quietly, because somehow they seemed to have completely avoided the topic of her brother, and it would have been cowardly not to give his condolences. Not that he wasn’t being a coward anyway, of course.

“He was a good kid. Worked his ass off better than a lot of the middle-class boys pretending to be men who sign up thinking they’ll get to stand around and stare at the ocean for half the voyage between dinners in the Captain’s cabin.” Maybe that was overstating it, but not by much. It also omitted the bottle of the Captain’s finest brandy Arthur had filched to celebrate his first quarter away from land, a secret Hiram had kept in exchange for… slightly more than half.

 

[Jumbled]

Elanor had to stifle a chuckle as the sailor became defensive from her words. “Of course, I didn’t mean to insinuate that you hadn’t.” she managed to tell him as she pulled her bottom lip inward, trying not to openly laugh at him. It was his own fault for sounding so confused about it in the first place. She imagined him more as some type of city boy, like the kind that panicked when they slipped in the mud or were followed by a goose. He did have experience on a boat, and with the slime and muck that came with that, she supposed. But, land and the sea were two entirely different beasts. He had also trudged through the murky sludge that covered the ground around the boardwalk, so he wasn’t so much a frilly man as the actual city folk were.

Her humor was only a short distraction from what lay ahead of her. As Hiram shoved at the door, she inched behind him as if he was a wall or shield, terrified that Mr. Green would be standing there at the ready on the other side. As the light entered the shack from the open doorway, she listened, but heard nothing; no voice, no coughing or wheezing. She peered around the man she took shelter behind, finding an empty and open path ahead of them. A sigh of relief blew against her mouth and away, taking some of her anxiety with it. “It can be hard labor on a farm. But, I would imagine manning a ship has its own difficulties, too. I honestly have no idea what’s involved. My brother barely—” her voice cracked at the memories before she cleared her throat. “He was a novice out at sea, of course.”

When he admitted he was alone in the world, without sounding so blunt about it, Ellie looked up at Hiram thoughtfully. The corners of her mouth stayed flat as she wondered if any of the sailors had families to come home to these days. Or if it was even worth their time. Did men that went out on long voyages even have families to come home to, or the time to start them? Arthur intended to provide for the farm’s continued growth, but he wouldn’t have been the one taking care of it. Surely Hiram had plans for all the coin he saved up from his work. She could only imagine what he might do with it, but she hoped it didn’t involve gambling like a certain husband of hers partook in.

“If it’s a drink you’d fancy, I’m sure there’s something on the farm as well. The taverns around here— well. I just don’t recommend them.” she said softly. “There are a lot more shady folk that have taken a liking to the Shrieking Siren. It’s an unsightly place to even walk past, really. So, come to the farm, drink, eat, and you can tell me about my brother.” she said confidently. “You can stay in his room there, then be on your way in the morning.” she finished. It didn’t really sound like she was giving him a real choice in the matter, but maybe that was the school teacher in her.

She held onto the sailor as he guided them out of the slums. She gripped onto him nervously, avoiding the gazes that crossed her path. Some of the people there knew what she looked like, but a lot of the faces were unfamiliar to her. She tilted her head toward Hiram to better hide her face as they went. The silence wasn’t as troubling to Ellie, but only because she was working so incredibly hard to avoid her husband at any turn. Every pass of a building had her glancing around corners. She was terrified but trying her best not to show it. She’d avoided him for a long stretch this time around. He hadn’t stumbled in searching for money in months. But some of the slips she’d noticed on the table were more recent. She wondered if he’d hit a lucky streak and that’s why he hadn’t come around— not that the little house in the mud looked any better for it. Hiram seemed far less focused on the quiet, though, and started on about Arthur.

“Loss is part of life, Mr. Sharp.” she started. Her words seemed empty, though. Perhaps she wasn’t fully listening to him, or perhaps she’d just grown numb to the idea of losing family. Her parents, her unborn child, and now her brother. She was alone now. “Let’s just wait until later for such talk. I’d rather not pass through town a complete and utter mess, I’m sure you can understand. A teacher has a certain reputation to uphold.” she said. It was oddly true. She wouldn’t want her school children seeing her pass by and mention to the whole class that she was a wreck. She’d never be able to settle them down.

“The school is just around the way,” she motioned with a finger as the two of them emerged from the evolving layers of the town. From slums to the poorer parts, to the lively city with the port; they were both back where they had started. Elanor had removed her arm from Hiram’s once they were out of the mud, not wanting to create rumors in any other way. Towns such as those with bored, gossiping girls waiting around for a man to pick them up and cart them off had nothing better to do with their time. She glanced at him every now and then, just taking in a new feature of his and attempting to remember it. “Did you live around here, then? Or were you from somewhere else? I can’t say that I know you, nor do I recognize you from the group of boys my brother would associate with.” Her attempt at small talk wasn’t the worst. She was genuinely curious about the man she walked along with.

At the school house, parked off to the side was her farm cart. She’d left her horse tied with it, thinking she wouldn’t be long. The beast of an animal snorted and shook its head at her grumpily and she clicked her tongue before walking over to him to pet the softest part of his muzzle. “I’m sorry, you handsome boy. Come, let’s get you something—” she said as she fished out an apple from the cart. The steed was built far larger than most horses and probably had no business living on their farm. He was an expensive breed, but back when she was a child, her uncle bred horses for a living. They were fortunate to get a few from him— runts, he said. So much for that. His brown coat was a little shaggy, far more so near his hooves. His mane could use a strong brush and his body alone was taller than Ellie. His head could easily lift high enough to match Hiram, if not taller, though she wasn’t sure the sailor was intending to stand by for a height comparison. Tidus, the horse, crunched on the apple and finished it before she gave him a good pat.

“There, he’s a bit more forgiving now. There’s— another apple there if you’d like it.” she said with a small smile. “Let’s load up, then, and get to the farm, shall we, Mr. Sharp?” she asked him.

 

[The Scandinavian]

Hiram was too fit to flush, exactly, but his face did turn a rather handsome shade of reddish bronze, and he instantly shut his mouth before he could shove another foot in there.

She had seemed so composed all of a sudden, and in his rush to try to relieve his guilt he had now simply made himself look like a careless idiot. Which he usually was, especially in the company of a lady, but troubling this gentle, grieving woman with his big mouth was the last thing he had wanted. To avoid repeating his mistake, he kept his silence from there and concentrated on steadying her across the muddy terrain.

While he felt her anxiety as they walked through the slums towards the middle of town and the neighborhood gradually cleaned up around them, he mostly put it down to the terrible situation and the lingering shock. There had been a time when he too had traveled carefully around the city, wary of faces and eyes whose recognition would mean endless trouble. But that had been many years ago.

Since then, Hiram had faced down the largest and most powerful creatures on God's earth countless times, and struck a dozen killing blows himself. His body carried scars from whales, from pirates and from cannibals, and nothing in New Brighton registered as a threat to his instincts anymore, though he kept an eye on their surroundings out of habit. Rather, he was absorbed by the softness and warmth of her arm around his.

That feeling was something quickly lost at sea, he had noticed. A beautiful vision or a delicious smell or taste could stick in your mind and nose and mouth for months, years, even decades. But the feeling and the warmth of a woman never lasted in your mind, not after a few weeks of the cold and the wind. Your skin simply forgot, as it acclimated to the work and the loneliness, surrounded by other lonely souls.

Perhaps that was why sailors like him tended to go directly from the dock to the brothel upon making harbor. To remind themselves what it felt like to be embraced and trusted by anything but their own kind. Of course, nothing a brothel could provide could compete with a woman of good breeding leaning on your arm to see her out of a miserable neighborhood, demanding that you accept the hospitality of her home.

As such, in spite of the circumstances, he felt a tiny part of himself die as she pulled her arm away and stepped towards the schoolhouse, though the continued fleeting glances and the amusing questions made it clear that she was not quite done with him yet. "I'm a Brighton boy, through, and through, Mrs. Green." he chuckled ruefully, looking over the building. "Or at least I was, back in the day. But I'm sure I was already off somewhere in the Bahamas when your kid brother first came here to learn his letters. And if he had associated with me and mine, you would certainly have regretted learning of it." No point going into detail about his origins. They would not impress her. At least not favorably.

His smirk disappeared and his brows flew up into the shadow of his cap when the delicate-looking young woman marched fearlessly up to her cart and started petting and stroking what looked like a warhorse worthy of Achilles himself. It had been a good while since he had spent any amount of time around the beasts, but since when had they grown so majestic? The thing was simply standing there in front of the school tied to a plain and unadorned cart, all shaggy fur and muscle, radiating strength that made him feel faintly... inadequate, in comparison.

"That's quite an animal." he said, ignoring the twinge of envy as the horse munched down on a delicious-looking apple, walking around the two lovebirds to inspect the powerful legs, fore and hind, not quite daring to lean down and get a view of what the horse might otherwise be packing that he couldn't possibly compete with. Looking down at the ground he spotted several more apple carcasses, and the head of a carrot thrown on the cobbles beside the cart. Clearly Mrs. Green's apples had not been the only offering it had received today. Hiram faintly wondered if schoolchildren would be as generous if he parked himself in front of the building with ruffled hair, and corpus and cock bared to the world.

"Hmm. We'd better save it." he grunted with reluctance, seeing the apple lying in a crate and wishing dearly to be alone with it. "Probably best to wait and see how he takes to my handling before giving up the only leverage I have over him, yeah?"

Thinking that it wouldn't hurt to give the boys looking out at them from the windows a good example to follow - God knew he could have used it himself - he stepped up to the seat of the cart and provided a strong arm to help Mrs. Green securely onboard before settling down himself, reaching for the reins, because much as he respected her composure there was such a thing as pride and dignity, and letting yourself be chauffeured out of town by a woman was very contrary to both.

Which didn't mean there wasn't a moment of awkwardness as he worked the long lines attached to the horse's head tack, trying to murmur something encouraging in his rough, deep voice. When it remained stolidly rooted on the spot he signed and imitated the the clicking of her tongue, which finally did lurch the cart into motion as Tidus moved into a trot, hoping she wouldn't comment on the false start.

Before long they were driving through the streets at a measured pace, and he found that reacquainting himself with his old hometown was even more enjoyable from the high seat of a cart, seeing people mill about beneath them while experimenting a little with the reigns, relishing the sense of control and power as they moved easily and efficiently from cobbles to soft road, the town houses parting around them to give way to open sky, and something in his soul took a deep breath at the sight of all the green and the smell of the plants and flowers outside the city and away from the associated stinks.

For the first time in what felt like years, he took a breath of truly fresh air, without the salt of the ocean or the smell of human leavings. Just clean, nourished air, accompanied by the peaceful music of grass and trees moving in the wind. There was still his dignity to think of, but it was impossible to hide his appreciation and sense of wonder, looking at the gorgeous American countryside she no doubt took for granted by now, as he had long ago.

"Our country is a beautiful place, Mrs. Green." he murmured earnestly, giving the monster in front of them a bit more head even though he had no desire to hurry to their destination. "You must take this trip almost every day, as a teacher. That's a lot of driving simply to get to your job. Do you enjoy it? I've always thought it a very honorable pursuit." Or at least he had after a decade and a half of drumming greenhorns on how to measure and calculate lengths of rope, or take accurate inventory, or -God save him- help them dictate letters home to mama. Not that he hadn't needed a fair amount of drumming on his own, when he first took on the life.

At some point between their meeting at the Boardwalk and leaving the city, the sun had begun to peek out from between the clouds, enriching the world around them with bright colors and combined with the dry air making him feel rather hot around the collar, forcing him to condescend to giving her the reins as he shrugged off the jacket and sweater, revealing a simple greyish cotton shirt and a thin vest stretched over a full, broad chest, wide shoulders and arms like narrow trunks of birch.

 

[Jumbled]

Elanor wasn’t at all surprised about Hiram’s response regarding his behavior as a boy. She’d seen her brother through a lot of his own silly shenanigans and supposed nearly all of them had their fair share of mischief to be had. The burly sailor should be no different. She wasn’t at all bothered by such thoughts either. Those things were beyond her, being a woman of ruined status and unavailable, she wasn’t looking at Hiram as any sort of husband material. It was bad enough they were about to be riding off together without a chaperone, other than the mighty horse that pulled the cart, but Ellie was also well past her years of being innocent and virtuous. If the town wished to gossip, which it often did, she might stay in the spotlight for a while. But, she’d grown used to that, too, with a gambling husband like Mr. Green. She wished she could have married for love and not status, though clearly both have their own chances of failing miserably, perhaps she would have had a better life.

“Years ago, my Great Uncle raised horses. At the time, this mighty beast was considered a runt and ill suited for any buyers. He had a lame leg, believe it or not. But he’s long since healed from my family’s care on our farm. My father gave him a reasonable amount of coin for a lame horse— family helping family and all that. So we ended up with him and now he’s likely worth more than double father paid. Funny how things can work out like that.” she said as she made easy enough conversation. “He’s a good boy. Obviously not the sort of horse one would normally find on a farm, but I like to think he’s treated well. And I don’t think he minds the work.” she added as she patted the horse fondly.

Ellie looked toward the schoolhouse windows. She forgot there was a special class being held there that morning. She wouldn’t have minded them seeing her brother, but Hiram wasn’t going to be a recognizable figure. She sighed as she gave a scolding look to the lads, waving a hand to urge them back to their seats. “Honestly.” she muttered. “Well, let’s be off before they all come outside with questions. I certainly don’t need to add that to my day.” she said as she turned away. As Hiram climbed into the front seat of the farm cart, Elanor took his offered hand to climb aboard and settle onto the hard wooden bench beside him, though there was enough space between the two. “You’ll do fine with my horse. He’s an agreeable beast.” she assured him. She looked off to the side, however, to avoid giggling at his first attempt. She found no sense in causing him embarrassment again. It seemed he eventually figured it out, though, as Tidus was persuaded to move forward.

She watched the scenery change, finding herself far less anxious as the prying eyes of the town were behind them. Hiram’s deep breath of the fresh air caused her to look his way. “The country is nice.” she said, as if she was agreeing with the words he never said. He took another breath then spoke as though he hadn’t stepped foot on real land in quite some time. “Yes, it is. Especially if you know the right places to look.” she told him. “It’s not so much driving if one lives within the town limits. But, yes, from the farm there’s a bit of distance. I don’t mind it if it keeps me away from that place, though.” she muttered quietly as she tried to push the images of the sad shack in the mud from her mind. “It’s rewarding, especially as a woman, to have such a profession. It does tend to circulate conversations about me from time to time, though some of that might be Mr. Green’s doing, I’m sure.”

She quieted as they followed the path that her horse knew well, but assuredly the sailor couldn’t have. Fortunately, he put aside his pride and allowed her to lead them toward the farm. Whether he only did it to remove his jacket, or if he had simply found it as a proper excuse to remove himself from the position, Ellie couldn’t determine. What she could tell was that the man had missed many etiquette classes. He had stripped the layers of warm clothing away, probably layers needed when out in the cold ocean air and wet mists that seemed inescapable. She looked him over for a moment, being sure not to stare as she pointed her face forward again.

“You really are welcome to that apple, you know.”

 

[The Scandinavian]

Hiram chuckled in wonder as she told him about the horse. It was hard to credit that the majestic beast had ever been anything but strong and healthy, but she didn't strike him as the kind of woman to make up such nonsense just to impress a stranger. And the world was a strange place. No doubt queerer things had happened than a lame horse growing into a prize stallion.

He grunted encouragingly as she spoke, only listening with half an ear as he continued to take in the scenery and allowed her gentle, feminine voice to wash over him. So she liked children? She was more than old enough to be a mother, but he hadn't gotten the sense that there was a babe or toddler in the picture. Imagine a gambling weasel of a husband so useless he had even failed to put a child in her! Embarrassing, to be sure. And painful, most like. Hiram had never in his life pretended to understand women, but had met sad, childless spinsters enough over the years to realize that it mattered on a level beyond the dubious benefit of parenthood. And Mrs. Greene felt like the kind of woman who ought to be a mother.

At her age he had spurned such thoughts himself, valuing his freedom and the camaraderie of his crew far too much to care for the notion of bawling infants, even his own. It hadn't been until a few years ago that the idea of teaching his own son to row and fish and navigate by the stars had started to pull at his heart in an unaccountable, longing way, along with the thought of owning a house, and slipping into bed every night to give his seed to a woman worth giving up all other women for...

Hearing her address him directly, he turned his head to look at her and felt instantly transfixed by the sunlight gleaming in her flaming locks of auburn hair, shining off her pale skin and reflecting in her almost golden hazelnut orbs as she gazed ahead. A tender throb ran though his middle, and as before, when he had caught her in the street, he suddenly became painfully aware how alone they were, and how long it had been since he last held a lass in his arms.

It was a shameful feeling, of course, considering the business that had brought them together and his own fault in it, but Hyram had never held any kind of illusions about what sort of man he was. And the scent of her beside him, sweet air in his lungs and warmth of the sun on his face were making it hard to concentrate on his guilt. Had this been nothing but a joyride, or had he been ten years younger and more impatient, he would have asked her to pull the cart over and entreated her to make a detour into the bushes that very instant.

"Uh..." he said eloquently, tearing his eyes back away from her lovely profile and looking behind them where the apple still lay in its crate at the bottom of the wagon.

Oh. Right.

"Much obliged, Mrs. Green." he said with earnest gratitude, reaching one long arm down the back of their seats to swipe it in a graceful, confident motion. The sunlight wasn't quite as kind to the fruit's features as it was to hers, but the attractive red and green crust still gleamed brightly in his hand, a worthy distraction if there ever was one. "I suppose with Tidus in such a congenial mood, it won't hurt for him share his provisions..."

As with the orange earlier, the acidic sweetness of the apple was almost like an assault on his senses, exploding in his mouth and bringing with it a surprisingly heartfelt sense of nostalgia and belonging. You really, really never knew how much you'd missed something until you tasted it once more. A deep, wordless groan of appreciation escaped him as he bit into it with a satisfying crunch.

"Delicious..." he said through the corner of his mouth, careful to keep any of the pulp from escaping in her direction, before suddenly remembering what passed for his manners and chewing the mouthful of perfect fruity flesh thoroughly before continuing after he swallowed. "Miracle horse healers, progressive attitudes and apple trees that might as well have been uprooted from the Garden of Eden... I'm looking more and more forward to seeing this farm of yours."

Then he suddenly remembered what actual manners were, and hurried to go on. "And thank you for your offer of hospitality, by the way. It's much appreciated. I'd be happy to pay for the inconvenience, as well. Was planning on renting a place in town for a few nights while I get my affairs in order, or returning to my cabin on the Fortune if I couldn't find something that suited. To be honest, I really didn't know what I'd do with myself. Must be nigh-on ten years since I last slept in someone's home."

Something of a fib, that, but lodging with the occasional whore didn't feel like it counted the same way.

Hyram took another bite of the apple, thinking it over as he savored the sweetness flowing between his teeth. It was hard to say, but he thought he might hear the barking of dogs in the distance. For a moment he was almost overcome with the desire to ask her to stop the cart again. Prolong the lovely ride and keep her to himself for a little while longer, before they were surrounded by who knew how many suspicious farmhands resenting his intrusion into their little world, and his presence next to a women many of them no doubt dreamed of claiming for themselves. He might not know women, but he knew his own gender well enough. And no man worked with or for a woman without thinking about bedding her, married or not.

Once again he shrugged off the feeling. He was a stranger to her, and to her people, and in the morning when he departed they would be none of his business.