Orcas Island, Gate of the Strait of Georgia

Late August 2K1

Bright sunshine and a gentle spirit belied a day of disaster, a day of cascading calamities.

It began with the morning post and a letter from an unknown, at least to me, publishing house.  Though several houses and journals have enquired; I only publish through my university press and of course the Naturalist for articles that might help the masses better understand the realities of their existence and throw away the cowl of superstition.

I nearly had a conniption as I looked at my addressed name, no titles or well earned honorifics and worse yet, initials! It read insultingly, W.C. Fields, at the North Beach, Orcas Island, State of Washington, U.S.A.  I reflected on my dear departed mother who had named me, glad she had not seen this. I wondered how H.G. Wells and Elliot accepted such, though, it was clear that a pornographer such as Lawrence would wish to be simply D.H. 

But greater horror was to be found in the abominable contents.  I have filed the letter but excerpt it here:

"My Dear W.C.," it began!  

"Thank you for entering our writing contest "Fairies".  Though your piece is not adequate for publication, as we promised, we shall provide critique of your artistry."

"The piece you have provided leaves much to be desired.  The style reminds us of the stilted works of an academic uncaring of the reader.  Who can tolerate such as 'absconded with the ensemble of a diminutive sentient sea creature'."  

The central character has no depth, we have no idea as to his identity, his loves, his youth, his passions, his, as the French so artistically put it "rason d'etra" (that means "reason to be")"...and on and on it went, poor grammar and missed spelled French.

"The subject is certainly fanciful, too fanciful.  Not only is it beyond belief and the scope of our contest, but mermaids as snakes is as repellant as fairies as insects.  No one even wishes to think such things much less read them."....and on.

"You really have no talent and should not consider any career in this field even as an amateur.  Perhaps, if you are inclined, pottery or basket making maybe a more suitable form of expression."

I seethed, not so much from the inanities of the asinine commentary, but I had been violated!  How had my journal entry found its way to the hands of a publisher of cutesy washer women diversions?

Storming, I left the porch settee of my cabin and walked to the "House".  Poor Mrs. Gibson was sitting on her veranda flanked by her two brown dogs, great beasts of some breed of retriever unknown to me but common to this island.  Her guards rather than sentinels ran wagging tailed to me expecting their usual pets and scratchings behind the ears, but, I had no kindness at that moment and am not a dog lover at heart anyway, though I normally do not deny them affection.

My face must have shown my wrath.  Mrs. Gibson reached for her cane attempting to stand as I hit the first step on stride, but fell back to her chair.

"No need to get up Mrs. Gibson."

"Thank you, Dr. Fields, but you appear so agitated." she said, her words broken by the Parkinsons and of that timbre of the very elderly.

"I fear Mrs. Gibson, that my privacy has been violated.  I must ask your assistance in discovering the perpetrator and rectifying this."

"Your privacy?  That is inexcusable."  She blew on a silver whistle she carried about her neck.  Both dogs immediately sat at attention.  I concerned that this hoopla might be too much for Mrs. Gibson's frail health and wondered if another method should be employed to mend my ego, but it was too late.

Jones, the caretaker, rounded the drive responding to his masters whistle.  Himself near doddering, perhaps 85, a tall lodge-pole thin half-breed with grayed hair to his belt and fashioned into a ponytail by a leather and seashell decorated thong.   Jones did not accept Mister or any other given name, when addressed such he would respond, "No, just Jones." I assumed it was an ancient North West tribal issue similar to the Papuan's of New Guinea, who when confronted with a photograph of the tribe can not recognize themselves, a name is simply loaned by the tribe for life.

"Please assemble the chamber staff here on the veranda."

In short order the girls were lined up facing me as if for inspection.  All had white dresses with embroidered flowers and tiny aprons.  It was a lovely site of blossoming youth framed by tall conifers and the massive beams and pillars of hand hewn timbers.

"Who is house-keeper of the "Georgia" cottage?", (each cottage was named, "Georgia" my lodgings for this stay) Mrs. Gibson squeaked but with authority.

"I am." answered a tiny miss of exquisite form  perhaps 17 years in age.  She had deep brown almost black hair waist length and brilliant green eyes.  An almost imperceptible but intoxicating odor, it reminded me, for some reason, of the estrogen experiments conducted in laboratory.

"You others may attend your duties, Jeanette, please remain here."

"Jeanette, Dr. Fields has issued a serious complaint."

She looked at me, I melted.  True, I was far too old at 32 for such as her.  Why, I would even be construed "mature" for an Irishman, were I to be one.  Best to be "fatherly" in this case, though my Penny was far away, nearly as far away on this continent as one could be, with her family in Cutler, Maine.  I attempted, unsuccessfully,  to control the thought, "while the cats away...".  I simply reasoned; what could we possibly talk about, Jeanette and I, our class and education being so disparate?

"Jeanette", I intervened, "my journal has been rifled and an entry forwarded to a disreputable enterprise."

"Oh no sir, they are a fine group.  I read their magazine each month, I love to read.  I just wanted to help, you seem so quiet and lonely.  I just wanted to do something for you."

So sincere she seemed with downcast eyes.  I couldn't imagine that I would appear self-effacing or withdrawn, especially to one such as this. I presumed I would seem dominating mentally, physically and morally.  With intrigue to discover more of her perspective, I queried, "Go on, explain yourself?"

"I was tiding the study, dusting the desk.  The book was open, honest it was.  An'.. an'...your hand is so strange...almost like what I think what'd they call it...calligraphy...anyways its wonderful the way the lines are on the paper. Half script, half printed it reminded me of the little waves in the channel and the breakers on the shore."

"I couldn't help myself but read it, just that open page...honest.  I'd seen our little people, I think.  At least what you described seemed like what I'd seen...some words were to big for me."  She looked up at me.  Was that a look of wanting?  My God!

"I 'membered the contest.  An' thought this is so wonderful these words, and he, thats you'd never do for yourself and its a whole hundred dollars for the best story...So while you went to Eastsound for a pint, it was my lunch, Mrs. Gibson, I copied it and sent it off...I'm sorry Dr. Fields, I was only trying to help...I didn't steal it, I put your name to it."

"Oh, Jeanette." while shaking my head in thought.

"Mrs. Gibson, I believe no real harm has been done.  Jeanette does appear to truly believe her excess was to be to my benefit.  A good Samaritan should not be punished, even if wrong. Perhaps educated, without reprimand?"  Mrs. Gibson shook her aged head in assent.

"Jeanette, I have many wondrous books in my travel library. Several might interest you.  My evening hours are free, if you wish I could lend you some,"  I thought of the luscious fig scene in Lawrence, "and could read to you and explain some of the more obscure passages."

Her eyes opened in wide-joy, "You'd do that for me?"

"Yes I would", I smiled.    Perhaps she'd appreciate my etchings too?

As I complete this days entry, I ponder who has seduced whom?  Certainly, she will come this eve.  I will read the works of Lawrence aloud, not for her for she is already moist with anticipation but for myself.  A flagellation for the moral calamity about to be fall me?

I will be her first, I know.  Not perhaps in the most physical way, surely a farm boy emboldened has done his duty, a beauty such as this would be wrong to pass.  No, but I will be the first to attempt to extract her softness, to take her unsealed womanhood.

We will sit on the couch.  I see it now. At first she will be respectfully on her pillow.  Then she will bring her legs up from the floor tucked slightly beneath her, leaving her shoes on the deck, her feet bared and calf exposed, now facing me, eyes bright, knee touching my thigh, I will read on.  She will interrupt, "how beautiful..."she'll say, and reach over to touch the words on the page, looking up now so close.  I will have no choice but to brush back her hair and its whispering compelling scent.  We will kiss and with her being she will take all thought from me, and give me a moments true peace.

Tomorrow, then I will have to leave this place foreshortening my stay.  I will have exposed all this island has left to offer or have exposed all my soul I care to.  I will wonder if I have left any good here.  Does the orca grieve the pup playing in the straights?

In fifteen or twenty years I'm sure I will recall young Jeanette or maybe run into her on some High street and know then whether I am a more complete man because of a night long past.  Whatever, I refuse to wallow in what might have been.