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Letter writing is an intimate act. A moment where confessions are trails of ink, or death threats scratched by a broken quill. So tender is the process, like poorly blown glass, that a single slip will suffice to ruin the parchment, stain a sleeve or bleed through wood. And then there’s the waiting game. The monotonous drying, the high risk stage.
Too many letters have been wrecked in haste, but João knows the tricks and admires his letter.
Dear Antonio, it reads, how are you?
João turns to the window of his seaside abode, a brine-smelling shack masquerading as a cottage, adorned with low-hanging strings of shells. A collection of crab pincers have been fashioned into tools, whilst dried seaweed is sewn into strips and used to patch up bags.
The weather has been kind as of late. The sun is back, you’d like it here now. Storms are less frequent and the beach is calm. When you return I’ll take you on a tour. There’s a cave not far from my house, and it’s largely left alone thanks to rumours of ghosts. Can you believe it? Ghosts, of all things?
I digress. I mustn’t make fun. You would enjoy meeting ghosts, wouldn’t you? Wreckages drift over that way too. I used to see crowds gather there late at night, hunting the remains for spoils, but that too has come to an end. Someone died and they called it a curse. People have learnt to respect death since then. When I see a gem upon the shore, I am also wise to walk away.
This letter has become quite grim, I apologise. Though again, knowing you well as I do, I can only imagine you smiling at this part. You have always enjoyed mysteries, and I dare say this feels quite real. So real, in fact, that someone from the town came to visit me yesterday. They asked if I had considered moving inland, there’s a nice room in town should I wish to do so, but I told them no and they seemed disturbed.
I shan’t let that part bother me. I can understand their concern. The waves are rough at times, so much so that they almost reach my home. One day they might come right over my roof, and I should quite like to see if it caves in or not. A real test of my construction skills.
Collapsing roof aside, I hope you are doing well. It’s been a while since you’ve written and believe me, I understand. Finding parchment is hard enough for me as of late, and let’s not talk about the ink. Write when you can, with whatever you find, though I draw the line at blood. It will only smell by the time it gets here.
Happy sailing and all the best,
João
“I think we’re ready now, hmm?” João smiles at the letter in his hands, and proceeds to roll it tight. He takes an empty bottle from the corner supply, slips the parchment inside, and stuffs the neck with a cork.
Outside, the sun has barely risen. Opportunity calls and so João grabs his coat, holds the bottled letter safe in his arms, and trundles out his humble shack. He wades through patches of long, rough grass, avoiding parts which have torn his breeches in the past, and paces to the sandy shore.
João follows an unseen path, one trodden many times but never marked, for he knows precisely where to go. Over the rocks, along more sand, until a fisherman’s base comes into view. It’s well placed for trade within the town, much unlike João and his isolated home, but that is them and he is him. Different creatures of habit. Of life.
Preferences aside, the fishermen are kind. João doesn’t need to announce himself anymore. He tips his head to quiet Berwald who makes the nets, and permits him to walk through their humble docks. After Berwald there’s Mikkel, the louder of the pair, who often rants about mermaids in a drunken slur, and thus can never be wholly believed.
Toni would believe him, João thinks to himself, uttering a hello when they meet.
“You’re wanting Arthur again?” Mikkel grins, not intending to be unkind.
“I do.” João nods. “Is he around?”
“He was in town last I checked,” Mikkel rubs his nose, and wipes the same hand on the thigh of his breeches. “But he’s bound to be back soon, ain’t he Ber?”
Berwald grunts. That’s supposed to mean yes.
“Very well,” João concludes, holding the bottle to his chest. “I can wait for his return.”
Punctual Arthur only keeps him five minutes, but he doesn’t return alone. A curious man is by his side, with striking red eyes that scan João, and hair the colour of a bright, full moon. His teeth are bared when he smiles, easily mistaken for a predatory smirk, but there’s a definite charm to the way his face creases, and how his skin is lined with silver scars.
“João,” Arthur approaches, never taking his eyes away. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? This is Gilbert, our newest recruit.”
João only nods and hugs the bottle tighter. Gilbert in contrast is open, unashamed, happy to bear guts and bones to the world.
“Pleasure to meet you,” his hand extends. It’s left to hang until Arthur clears his throat.
“Can you give us a moment, Gil?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll be out with the others.”
“Appreciated, thank you.” Arthur maintains a smile as Gilbert leaves, and balances it still when he turns to João. He notices the bottle within his grasp, and disguises grief with too much ease. “Another letter?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” João finds his voice, comforted in Arthur’s presence. They’d been friends since Arthur tripped near João’s house blind drunk, and needed to be cared for the very next day. One visit had become another, curiosity called Arthur back to the shack. Friendship soon became carnal escapes, kisses and nails marking Arthur's skin, and a satisfied crawl to work come the morn.
Today, Arthur looks good. More so than usual, João notes. A shadow accents his jaw, and he’s finally achieved a light tan. One would think a fisherman in summer always tanned, but Arthur and the sun have a strange relationship. Arthur is willing whilst sunlight bolts, preferring to bless the skin of other men.
Arthur’s calloused palm comes forward, a quiet plea compared to Gilbert’s handshake. “May I?”
The bottle stays put. João’s eyes are dull. “You’ll take it far, won’t you?”
“As far as I can, and farther still,” Arthur promises. “Have I ever let you down before?”
“And if you see him,” João chokes on the words, ignoring Arthur’s question. “Will you ask him to respond?”
“Of course but-”
João shoves the bottle against his chest. “Send it, please. And say no more.”
Talking always leads to realisations, and it's those he doesn't want to hear.
"João." Arthur reaches out. There's a fierce longing to close the gap. It's the same before every letter is sent. The trepidation, the fantasies. What follows after is an agonising pause, where only the hiss of rolling waves can be heard.
"I'm sorry," João steps back. "I have to go."
"Please wait-"
"I can't." Teeth are gritted. João inhales. A dry and desperate sound. "Until next time. Because we both know there'll be one."
“Until next time then,” Arthur yields, watching João’s back as he leaves.
In all fairness to Gilbert, he at least has the decency to reappear a minute later. Even then he isn’t rowdy, but rather finds a spot in Arthur’s shadow, and follows his stare to the place where João stood.
“Seems like a nice guy, that one. But he got a little uh- tense in the end there, wouldn’t you say?”
Arthur marches towards their boat. “I’ve known him for a while. It’s fine.”
“Did you meet in town?”
“No, by his place. It’s a long and embarrassing story.”
Gilbert watches Arthur wrap the bottle in wool, like a parent would their newborn child, and safe-place it upon their fishing boat. It’s a tender, personal touch, and the strain in Arthur’s face is clear.
“Are we meeting someone?” Gilbert asks. “Only there ain’t nothing out there but fishes for us.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
The vagueness of it all confuses Gilbert. Arthur’s fingers clench as he stands in their boat, and turns his head to the right hand side. If he tries he can picture João’s coastal shack. He imagines him back at his chair and his desk which is covered in ink, blank parchment on the surface and a bottle to his lips, trying to numb the latest goodbye.
“Arthur, this seems a bit weird.”
He’s not wrong, it’s strange indeed. A man appears now and then out of the blue, leaves a bottle and slinks away. Arthur’s tried to speak sense into João, but is always stopped at the point where-
“Who’s the letter for, exactly?”
Arthur’s throat constricts. It’s been a long while since he’s had to explain.
“His brother,” he eventually replies. “He’s been missing at sea for the past five years.”
“Ah.” Gilbert lowers his gaze. “Nothin’ confirmed, and so he keeps hoping?”
“We hope,” Arthur corrects. His eyes sting. He blames it on the sea salt. “But enough questions, it's time to head out.”