Gone the Tides of Earth

That same very beach before greeting the dawn, the blue sky evenly lit o’er its soft, cool sands. Gentle tide rolled in, in crevices of each wave dazzled the whitish light and thence undulated upon the shore where scale-esque formations, hard and firm underfoot ceased at the brink, an intimate kiss unto the moist beginnings of golden respite. Alas simply, with surety enough I didn’t care to leave out from there, those soothing waters of the Aegean, yet to wade the ways I still had to go on towards dusk would require pain - afoot on dryland I’d glide along at a better pace. Anyways then there will have been more time for it, going that way by the end of it all.

At the finale of a fair meander I found myself by the debris of an old ruin. There was an archway facing the beach crumbling, winding steps meagrely intact that led to a platform surrounded with a column of decrepit marble pillars. The floor was dusty, cold like exposed bones, and a small brass table with curved legs and matching chairs in the middle. One could only assume it had endured a lengthy acquaintance with silence, stillness, exposure, that it had patiently waited through decades. Besides sand and dust there were moss, lichen and long grasses grown down from the upper shore that coated the ruin and grew between cracks, upon the quaint little setup of table and its couple chairs. The sun was gone and what light remained bright, harsh, yet not at all unpleasant. A ghost of warmth clung too; the expanse of sea darker save brighter in spots the rays still shone. There was not a single reason to be hasty, or feel, bygone.

Settling in on the cool metal of one of the chairs I felt enlivened by the resurgent breeze. Sitting there contentedly, I watched the dusk settle and felt the ages melt. Time flew by on the wind and years flickered away, centuries beat on and the capitulation of the tides washed it all away. By then the sky was an ellipse of navy and indigo, darkness pressed on and there was not a bad feeling about it at all. Plans beyond me beckoned tolerance, unbiased attentiveness with tender resolve. There were not any plans I was not part of and nothing I had to believe nor follow or do. Perfectly and resolutely I was in belonging my own and yet, beyond consideration, an unpossessed part of an inexplicable and unrevealed sublimity of what was and could only be whole.

That what mattered was still to come I was sure of. That what would transpire far beyond I could not be certain, despite knowing plans to be uncomplete and most likely eternally unending. Fuss would not help, to rebel would only be to stymy the truth, that of mine and ours. Honesty felt like a key found naught a moment ago, that I’d have to wait until morning to use, to discover what lie illumed in the cellar below the ruin or across the plains reaching into the distance past the upper shores. Nothing felt irrelevant and what else was there to do but quiet the mind and lovingly be. Time and space of the ages fell unto me, so much more did I understand than before. Peacefully I sat and gazed the world as light went damper, scapes faded out of transparency. One with the wind, waves and Earth, bereft absolutely nothing, except instead, more.

Past the pines, down the scarp we flew upon not so subtle an escape. There was nothing else to be done, we merely were executing the term of a pre-authorized agreement; long having abided the conduct of duty, that odd lot of us fell away from camp that now it was time for the nurses to be leaving. Not one very sure if another intended to rush astray moments ago, sleepily camped around a bonfire warming beans and bread, the sight of a disgruntled camion and but a word and smirk from Alci was enough for us to flee and the rest to follow suit. From distant mountains and carpeting forests, war-making roads and a tradition of vacated spaces matching upheld objectives, of beaten dirt paths, tents, a fine log cabin and renovated outhouse, we’d broken for the head of the escarpment at the indicative moment. Borne in the instance of spontaneity we felt high with summertime enlightenment, vacation from the war and wanting to be vacated from ourselves.

Courtney and I maintained a firm grasp, kept together on the race through the trees. The driver’s shouts rang shrewd in the valley, there had been a mastiff in the transport, I felt paranoid the hound would come at our heels. Alethea and Cian cascaded down the paddocks, behind Alci and a harem of mockful suitresses stumbled past each obstacle. My Scots beauty, with her lovely braids and supply squeezing my hand, I tugged her ahead and we funnelled forward by a rushing brook that ran through a ravine a of bulging grounds; we past betwixt bowers and clearings that opened on frog ponds, deadfall and denser areas within the mightily-pined woods.

‘Do you trust me?’ I asked her, and she said to me, ‘Haven’t much choice, have I?’ and a coy smile, wrinkle in the nose.

The way fell steeper unto meadows, storming ahead throughout and switching direction onto a narrow path shaded under leafy treetops, crooked willows. Amid the touch of sweaty hands my heart trumpeted, vigor at every subtly stroking finger and the delicate union between palms, I must be falling in love with her. Gone past the plain of heather we broke off, crouching under stooping branches and becoming tangled in spotty undergrowth, thoroughfare of an almost indiscernible single-file route.

Sunlight lit up a clearing beneath the canopy. Arched like an umbrella, treetops streamed vibrancy radiated via translucent canvases of green diffusion. The floor littered with dead leaves and tree droppings, a lake larger than the ponds, water of the rushing brook spilling off a pebbly drop into the pool. Plenty lily pads wafted in a bungle at the far side, mosses and algae caked along the rim like natural liners. Part of the ways round the edge stood Irish and Thessalonian, already stripped into the linens of undergarments; laughing and seeming not to notice they hurried until everything was removed and then plunged in the water.

Courtney took my hands and held them against waist, interlocking the fingers with her own. She pulled me close, lowered her head back and gazing I kissed her like that. Longer our kiss went the firmer lips pressed, tilt of her face fell deeper toward a shoulder as I wrapped her up hard within the embrace. Our fingers free, she worked her hands softly up both arms then traced the subtle depressions of each vertebrae in my neck, fingers abridging head where they lighted in hair. Arms about I pulled her tighter, she swung around and kissed me back steady, tongues parting lips.

‘Henry,’ she whispered, lips just parted, eyes searching. ‘What’s that doing over there?’

I turned to look where she meant, finding the place in question. It was a sort of makeshift camp situated near the distant rim, where denser treetops dulled the brightness of the sun. The setup looked like a broad canopy bed, a divan at its foot and a solid sitting desk afore. Right back into her eyes I peered, they smiled and her lips a parabola, we started through thicker brush in retreat for the lavish forest accommodation, the echoes of laughter of friends from rear as the rest entered the clearing.

The desk we arrived at first, separate of any leisure add-ons. It was stout pine with chestnut lacquer, ages of moss and dampness stained into the varnish. Only thing it bore was a mechanical typewriter with a sleek jet coat. Underneath a folding metal chair was splayed way it was last sat on. Below within a nook was a smashed safe, its knob mechanism defunct, the latch ajar. Courtney settled on the faded lustre of the desktop, I knelt before it, her legs dangling aside.

‘What’s in it?’ She was undoing the top buttons of her twill uniform jacket. ‘Tell me something worthwhile like chocolate.’

‘No chocolate,’ I said, and withdrew what I could with a hand. She took the stockpile and looked it over, eyes full of the fire they flashed when we kissed, whispering tenderly and deep in passions of making love. ‘Anything?’

‘This one is a love letter,’ she said coolly. It consumed her attention consummate; after a minute she shifted, looked up. ‘I wonder how far these go back. To the beginning.’ She handed me loose sheaves of letters, inspecting a medley of polaroid photographs for a lengthier moment. When she was content, she passed them on, and was quiet.

With curiosity I looked to her, wondered what she thought of and deftly felt an arousal in her soul. Eyes contemplative of great depth, aqua throughout into the core of something hidden, deeper, yearning. Calm I transferred my attention back to the yellowed sheaves, myriad written soldiers’ letters of varying sorts, most that no doubt never got read after all, some that were series between friends on opposite leaves, tales that ended with permanent recess as per one’s lack of reply. There were also sheets of poetic verse as well as short stories and scores of the polaroid pictures - memories of times captured via commando groups making merry by the lake, swimming, climbing trees and wrestling with keen pals drunk on the bottle. Certain units had returned to the place more than once, though there were typically less reserves among these groups of comrades in each consecutive photo than there had been prior.

Courtney grasped my hand as I made to stow the contents away. She took it in her lap, I saw the slow yet full rising of her chest with each breath taken. She just stared at me the way that she did, her twin flame stoked mine and I went below in a brevity of instinct to consult closer the safe. Lower, its base bottomed out and resected from view, I held apart the initial stack and clutched onto more, wriggling papers out of a deeper crevice. Upon analysis it was merely a bundle of whiter copy paper, damp and the corners curled. Littered below as well were dozens more polaroids, and the camera itself kept in a leathern protector that nestled in the rusted, busted tray.

These photos were of an intimate nature, nudes that were taken abed in circumstance of lovers, romantic portrait above the bare waist and few even racier than that. Courtney saw over my shoulder, I tucked them back in and took out the camera. She looked at me and I imagined myself probably looking back a similar way at her, smiled for the sake of smiling. Aground was a patch of wild irises, I took one and placed it through her silken blonde hair, tucked it behind an ear, held her hands in mine. In an act of necessity, I slid a blank page into the cartridge of the typewriter, aligned it, set the font.

‘I need to write you a letter,’ I said to her, eyes at once tantalized, smoldered, pensive. She waited there, a look bemused and then the lips smiling thinly.

Dear Miss Courtney Garswood,

You astound me and are an indisputable phenom. What a month it has been since you came into my life. Perhaps you are the nymph-esque goddess you seem, or a gorgon siren yet. All jokes aside I know in my heart what is there I have felt rarely before, what grows a flower of love. This all because of you, battery of thine hope, spirit and passion. Courtney, I adore you, wish to be yours through the days of my life. So what say we meet up and hitch a wagon our next corresponding leave? Yes I am asking you to consider marrying me. Here and now I ask of you to belong to no one else, and rather be my wife.

Sincerely, yours truly,

Mr. Henry Owen

She read the letter silently, the thin smile grew into something larger as she folded it and put it away in a pocket, cupped my face in her hands and leaned all her weight on me for an indescribable kiss. Staring into each other’s eyes, we may have recognized the reflections of our own souls. She pulled me out of the chair, hugging me tight. Delicately Courtney took the camera away by its satchel strap, grabbing onto my hand and guiding.

‘Yes, Henry,’ she said, leading towards the canopied bed.

The white duvet and drapes stained with earthen smudges; stray leaves scattered over damp fabrics. The curtain rods were bent, ceiling drapery nearly caved in under the weight of much natural debris. A steady drip of water fell from the middle of the mangy bulk to dampen the center of the bed; wet through and through where it dropped. Courtney stopped before the edge, releasing both my hands and passing along the camera.

She began taking off the dark greens of her uniform, getting naked and then guiding me forward again. The wild iris was still in her hair nestled between a braid. Given the distance, I figured the others would not see anything. Alethea and Cian rested on the bed of the shore, mere specks to sight; Alci and his nurses were closer, splashing and dunking each other in the water. I slipped out my twills, let them fall to the forest floor at my feet. She crawled onto the bed, then under the covers, charms of her silver anklet tinkling like a miniature windchime. As she settled, held the sheet horizontal across.

‘Like this,’ she told me.

I crouched at the foot of the bed, through the aperture immortalizing her face in a frame deepened by canopy pillars and trees with their shining treetops. Eyes deep expressions of cosmic energy, complexion fair like marble or milk, skin soft, sweet.

‘Come into bed.’

That evening on the road it was colder, getting dark when we loaded the nurses’ duffels into the carrier. Supposedly the truck had been in need of maintenance, a modest covered camion with spots enough for half a dozen total; the driver had checked the pressure in the tires, rotated them, changed the oil, fueled and adjusted the brakes while he waited. This last entertained in the capacity that he felt oppressed by the tedium; when we had come up the escarpment he was laconic, we’d made a show to be quick in preparations and preparing dinner, once fed he finally conceded to small talk, telling about goings-on in the capital and official business of our military.

Did Athens hold strong? Oh yes. Was Thessaloniki disputed territory? Only temporarily. The army would win it back soon. This despite internal bombardment for almost three years, some Balkan states still supplying the insurgents. They would take it back in the name of Hellas. Had news come from any allies? Their message was to hold fast, that continual pressure on the northern resistance could only lead to diminished resolve. Would there be changes in the conduct of warfare? Truthfully, things were stalemated. Yes, they were. Oh, yes indeed, we agreed upon this. Did the moderate advance during the year’s campaign make any difference? Not sure but things were happening. In fact, Turkey had regiments they were sending vis-à-vis the isles to Greece’s aid. Great, fantastic news. The war in the mountains could be expected to be won before the end of next season’s fighting. Well we would have to wait and see. We will have to wait and see.

After all this we stood at the tailgate, lifting the girls into the bed. They were late, the driver had taken his seat, it was by then really time to get going. The basic farewells were over, Alci on the hatch jesting for the nurses. Alethea and Cian held each other close at the opposite taillight, Courtney was leaning over the rail, so her face was not much above my own. Driver honked the horn a couple times, not as a threat nor to be impolite.

‘Where is he taking you guys?’

‘I’m not sure. Eleni, where is he to deliver us?’

A nurse in her thirty-somethings named Eleni knocked on a sliding glass pane at the front of the bed. The driver opened it, conferred and she shouted back over the answer. Thus we knew where they were being escorted, where theoretically we’d find them upon visitation in the next three months or beyond during break. Driver even graciously passed back an address on a loose-leaf parchment, so we had that too. The nurses told us that if we got ourselves on a particular ledger, for brain maladies that we’d guaranteed get stay in their residence along the claim of next of kin, that after discharge if we were willing to architect any number of false maladies that could earn us at least another couple weeks assuredly in sick quarters. Driver had not yet shut the window, heard all of it and intoned that to lie would be a stain on one’s honour agenda and personal record of service. We might not be court-martialled, but there was zero negotiation for amoral reprimand.

I hoisted myself up on the tailgate, braced with my forearms and waited for Courtney’s kiss. When she did, I felt butterflies in my stomach, surge of energies through throat and body. She kissed me a last on the forehead, we looked at each other the entire time as I lowered myself back onto the rubbly ground.

‘Until leave, then?’

‘I’ll see you beforehand if I can.’

‘If not though as we discussed.’

‘I’ll wire you when the time comes. You sure you’ll be able to get away?’

‘I’ll make sure.’

‘Alright, Garswood.’

‘Okay, Owen.’

The driver, less patient now than before put us on notice, revving the engine idled. Still bent over the taillight, Courtney stroked the side of her face; I stood back from the truck and let our hands slide out of each other’s. Cian lifted Alethea onto the bed, she wiped away both their tears. Us men closed the tailgate, backed away on the road. Courtney Garswood smiled as the spoiled machine rumbled, driver steering it for the bend. As goodbye I held up a hand, not waving it though holding it there.

Romantically, I stood still for a bit more than mattered or made sense. Cian stood alone under the trees, would a while longer. Alci and I fell in, ‘So,’ he said, ‘where did she tell you to find her?’ I answered honestly, ‘In Drama, on a bridge in winter in the heart of the village with fire in the lampposts and snowflakes in the sky.’ Clasping a hand to my shoulder he said, ‘Let us go then. Drama is good. Thrace is good country, pristine. The Tuscany of Greece. This you will see, my friend.’ He had no idea we were to be married.