The sun was beginning to set for the evening, the sky a wash of color. A warm, salty breeze blew in from the ocean, rustling the palm fronds overhead. Their familiar, whispering sound was comforting, alone on the beach at the beginning of the night. She was gathering driftwood that had washed ashore during the hurricane. The fire needed to be kept ablaze throughout the night, and it was her job to gather the wood. She wouldn't have noticed it, but the sky tonight was especially fantastic. She turned to watch the sun set, and there, on the horizon, was a small, dark dot. She watched it for a moment, decided it wasn't important, turned around and walked the short distance to the village, her arms full of driftwood.
She kept what she had seen to herself, for she didn't think it was important. The next night, she went back to the beach to gather more driftwood. When she got to the beach, she froze.
A giant ship was anchored a way from the shore. It must have been damaged in the hurricane for the center mast was broken in half, a net of rope hung above the deck, suspended in tattered white sails. Two men in a rowboat were quickly advancing on the shore. She slipped behind a palm tree in the fading light, her toes digging in the hot sand, and watched the strangers from the shadows of the jungle.
Before the boat touched ashore, one of the men jumped into the water and dragged it far up the beach, safe from the rising tide. The other man stepped over the side of the boat and wobbled a bit, unsteady on the shifting beach sand. The first man caught his arm and held him steady, standing close. He said something and they both laughed. The men stepped apart, the one who jumped into the ocean sat on the side of the boat and unlaced his boots, dumping seawater out of them. The other man put his hand to his forehead, shielded his eyes from the setting sun, and looked around the beach. He pointed to the faint path that lead to the village. She realized with a start where they were headed, but she was fascinated by them. She should warn the village. She didn't. The man with the water in his boots, Yellow, she decided, after his hair, laced them back on, and the two men started into the jungle. She followed them silently.
The path soon veered around a large boulder, and Yellow stopped and looked back down the path. The beach was hidden behind a thick veil of vegetation.
He wrapped an arm around the other man's waist and pulled him close. They kissed.
Fran watched in fascination for the moment they stood together, a feeling that this wasn't meant for her to see crept up her spine. She sunk deeper into the shadows, turned, and ran to the village.
---
The two men left that evening and came back with many more. They made a camp on the beach and stayed on the island for a long time, repairing their ship and trading odd, wonderful things for food and provisions. Their language was strange and harsh, but they were kind. The man she called Yellow was named
Gustaf and his friend was called
Stellan. She never told anybody about the incident in the jungle, and she never saw it happened again.
"Close, London." Gustaf was teaching her his language. The men from the ship had been living on the beach for three months now, their ship was almost repaired.
"Lon-don." The words were foreign on her tongue, but easy enough to learn.
"Great, Fran!" His smile was dazzling and Fran shied back, a small smile playing at her lips. The men weren't able to pronounce her given name, so they had given her an new one. She liked it. "You are learning fast. You'll be a regular old English woman in no time!"
Fran wasn't quite sure what that meant, but she smiled, for Gustaf was smiling. "Go Lon-don with you, yes?" she asked.
Gustaf threw his head back and laughed. "You can't come with us, Fran! You must stay, here is your home."
"To travel. To...to look. And learn more. Home is nice, and boring."
"But boring. Nice, but boring."
"But boring. Nice, but boring." She repeated, committing the rule to memory. Lon-don is nice, but not boring."
"And not boring." Gustaf corrected. Fran signed, exasperated."Lon-don is nice. Lon-don is not boring.""No, London is not boring. But it is very busy, and there are a lot of people."
"People like you? People like me?" She pointed to the tall ears sticking out of her mass of curling white hair, and to Gustaf's strange, tiny, fleshy ears on the side of his head. To his sandy colored hair and white skin, to her red eyes, and his sparkling, amused blue ones.
"Yes! Even more! But it is very dirty." He added, for Fran's eyes were gleaming with excitement. It was going to be hard to convince her to stay. Gus liked talking with her, her enthusiasm for learning was spectacular, and her innocent wonder was infectious.
---
Gustaf looked at her with a blank face. "Remind me again why I allowed you on the boat?" Fran smiled. She had learned about sarcasm very quickly.
"You did not."
"Well." Gustaf looked to the horizon, the island a tiny dot in the distance. "I guess you're coming to London." Fran smiled, and Gustaf couldn't help but smile back.
---
"Is your home not in London?"
They were in Gustaf's office on the ship, waiting for dinner. The ship's sails were filled with a brisk wind as she made her speedy return to London."Stellan and I are from a place called Sweden, north of London." Fran frowned a bit as she studied the atlas, looking for Sweden.
"North...That means that this Sweden is cold, yes?" Gustaf nodded. Fran didn't see for she was looking at the atlas. "It is cold, yes?" She repeated, looking up.
"Yes, very cold." Gustaf chuckled at her frown. "You don't like the cold?" Fran shook her head no, frown intensifying. "You know, London can get pretty cold too." he teased.
"I will need to have warm clothes then." She said, as though it were that simple. She looked back down at the atlas.
Gustaf sighed, closed his journal, and cleared his desk of his charts. He sat down at the table across form Fran and folded his hands in front of him. She looked up from the book again. "Fran, we need to talk." He waited for her to respond, but after a moment of silence he continued. "I can't just bring you to my home. My parents would refuse to have me bring a woman to the estate who I wasn't going to marry."
"But you love Stellan, do you not?" Gustaf's eyes went wide with surprise and he looked to the open door. He got up and shut it. "What gives you that impression?" he said after a moment.
"You do not deny it." Gustaf glared at her. "I saw you. On the beach, when you first came. You and Stellan are always very close. I do not know why you want it to be secret, it is obvious when you are together that you are in love."
Gustaf groaned and ran his hands through his hair in frustration, slumping down in his chair. "Fran, you must keep this secret," he insisted, "If anybody were to find out, Stellan and I could be thrown in jail, or even put to death." This time it was Fran's eyes that went wide with surprise. "Nobody must ever know. Don't even tell Stellan. Please. Promise me."
"I promise."
---
Fran and Gustaf were wed shortly after arriving in London. Stellan was not in attendance, and Fran could tell his presence was sorely missed. He and Gustaf had talked. His parents were getting anxious for him to get married. As the eldest son in the family, they were eager for an heir. Stellan couldn't produce an heir, Fran was available and willing, and she understood the situation. Gustaf's family was cool towards her initially, this strange, unknown woman who they had never met. They were displeased she was not a human, but her innate curiosity and infectious good mood soon won them over. London was everything that Fran dreamed it would be, and so much more.
In the mornings, Fran got out of bed early, dressed, slipped into Gustaf's room and kissed his forehead. Sometimes Stellan was still there, not yet having slipped back into his own room. She would smile as they slept, heavyhearted. She really did love Gus, and she knew he loved her back, but it was a different kind of love than the one he had for Stellan.She busied herself with other things. Some mornings she went to the kitchen and, together with the cook, walked to the market, empty baskets hanging in the crook if their arms. The market was incredible.
Before they could see the maze of colorful stalls, the sound washed over them, still blocks away. Vendors hawked their wares, shouting prices to passers-by, stray children screeched as they ran underfoot, and stray dogs barked, looking for scraps of food. The cacophony was only made sweeter by the sounds of the church bells, ringing out the time every quarter-hour. Through the din of the market, the sound of the wharf could be heard. Sailors shouted orders, metal chains clanged and the creak of the ships in the morning breeze carried far. The sounds all converged into a curious orchestra, so different than the sounds of the jungle.
Nostalgic Kanis
