The Loneliness of the Long-distance Postman

[Steven Hunley]

The Loneliness of the Long-distance Postman
by
Steven Hunley

Do you know where the world’s only drive-in post office is? It’s in Chicago. But there have been post offices even more remote than that. You didn’t have to drive to get there either.

I can’t say this is my own story, or even that it runs in the family. It was, in fact, related to my grand-father over a glass of port by Somerset Maugham one night after dinner in Villa Mauresque in St Jean Cap Ferrat, in France. You’ve heard of it no doubt. This happened in about nineteen sixty-four. It’s never been written down. Maugham died shortly thereafter. He discovered it on one of his trips to the South Seas. While pouring two glasses of port for himself and Granddad, he hesitated a moment, as if he was remembering, then said,

“Did I tell you about the first paddle-in post office in the world and what became of it?”

“Well, as a matter of fact Willie,” Grandpa confessed. “You haven’t.”

‘I call it the Loneliness of the Long-distance Postman of Kiribati. I don’t suppose it would amuse you very much, having been to the South Seas yourself.”

“Any tale you tell is usually entertaining, Willie, so please go ahead.”

Maugham didn’t much like being called Willie but he and my grandpa were close so he let it slide, like a turtle. Like they were brothers.

“When I visited Kiribati the first time it was in 1927. Wasn’t so much of a place then you know. A single church set up by missionaries. Surf pounded ragged-rocked shorelines and the wind rushing up the cliffs. Brown and green palms curling over the constant foaming water flowing up and down silver beaches. No harbor. No quay. Nothing much, only nature at her finest.

The main village had a chief named Mahevi, just like the king of the Typees in Melville's Typee. He had a son. Made the son an ambassador after he got old enough, and sent him to Washington on some sort of diplomatic mission. The boy was named Tawhiri, or tempest, because he was a trouble-maker as a child. He took a tour to the U.S. Postal Department in Washington D.C. and somehow during the tour found out about the first drive-in post office in Chicago. It was about to be built on the floor of the old one built in 1921, right on the expressway. When he returned to the islands, he told his father what he’d seen. Mahevi saw himself as a modern and up-to-date monarch, and the old man went crazy.

‘’We’ll show those Americans who’s modern! We’ll beat them to it!”

A King doesn’t submit bills to committees and forget about them while he grows older. Waiting for things in committee doesn’t happen. Whatever he says is law. It is accomplished at once. A suitable location, some bamboo, palm leaves, a few nails, a roll of stamps. You know how it is in the islands. Makeshift as all get out.

In his zeal to modernize he’d decided to build one of his own island-style, and made his son Chief-Postmaster to take care of the place. Tawhiri was the only one he could trust.

They stuck the office on the tip of Vanuatu, right where the copra trade and workers sailed by. They issued their first stamps and went into the postal business. Because of the rarity of their issue and small numbers, collectors from all over the world sent for the stamps. It was quite a business for a while and kept the son busy. Which was good, since he was the only one on the island, besides a couple of gulls, a family of sand pipers and a few coconut crabs.

But then came the great coconut blight of 1935. The routes of copra trade changed, and after a while slowed down to a crawl. For five years things got slower and slower and slower. But since they changed so slowly, he hardly noticed at all. He’d stroll the beach alone at low tide, looking for shells and thinking of his girlfriend back home on Kiribati. How black and shiny were her curls! As black and shiny as a wet muscle shell. How luscious her lips were, like red bougainvilleas and how wide were her hips? Ooh, just wide enough! And sturdy brown hairy legs. She was an island-man’s Barbie, Polynesian style. He’d dream of her every single night. Out of touch that he was, he had no clue what was going on in the outer world. He had no idea of the Japanese and their dreams of conquest in the Pacific.

Finally, on a foggy day in 1937 he heard an airplane drawing closer and closer. Maybe it was the long-awaited sea-plane to pick up the mail! But instead of humming it was sputtering and coughing.

A plane shining like polished silver dropped from the clouds. Then it crashed into the lagoon right in front of the post office. Minutes later, a man, paddling with his feet like mad and out of breath, appeared from the fog and was staying afloat hanging on to the propeller that was still intact. Tawhiri found him washed up on the beach along with other debris face down in the sand.

He turned him over.

But it wasn’t a man! It was a woman with short-sandy hair wearing a leather flying helmet.
She had freckles on her nose and was wearing boots and a flying suit. He carried her back to the post office and removed her clothes to dry them by the fire. The boots too. How tiny and pale her feet were! They weren’t like large strong Polynesian woman-feet at all! And that light-colored hair, so short! He’d seen it at times in the states and how uncomfortable it made him feel! Didn’t they want to let their hair grow long and oil it with coconut oil? Where did western women they get their sense of beauty anyway?

As he pulled off her trousers he noticed her legs. They were thin and pale and smooth! Where had the hair gone? He touched her thigh. She still didn’t come around. He ran his finger down her inner thigh where it was pale. The sun had never kissed these legs, and that was a fact. He couldn’t believe how smooth she was! What manner of woman was this? He had many questions to ask her when she woke up.

Her eyelids finally fluttered. She glanced around and regained her aplomb immediately, and propped herself up on one elbow. She flattened her hand and extended it.

“I’m Amelia,” she announced, “And where am I exactly?”

“I’m Tawhiri, and you’re in my post office on Vanuatu.”

“My plane crashed. The radio operator...”

“I’ve seen no one else. The sharks in the lagoon...” his voice trailed off.

“We were lost.”

“It’s easy enough to get lost sometimes. Rest now. We can talk later.”

She closed her eyes again. All went black. The surf pounded the reef with a roar. You heard spray falling and dripping over the coral. At low tide it ran into the pools full of crabs and starfish and octopus babies. At high tide the rollers would dash the calcium battlements to pieces and turn their corpses to fine white sand. Above, the wind swept restlessly between the palm leaves. The regularity and irregularity of the organic rhythms put her right back to sleep.

After dusk, stars started to appear. It grew calmer and the sea breeze was cool and refreshing on his face, moving the curtains ever so slightly. He watched her sleep. What a small lump she made under the sheet. It was an interesting shape, that lump, he had to admit.

to be continued. Thank you Alan Sillitoe for the title inspiration.

[MANICHAEAN]

Steve
Please continue. I love the anarchy of wild places that exist out there and not just in a writer's imagination. Brillient exercise also in what turns a man on in a woman! Hairy legs indeed! In Nigeria it was "bottom power". None of these skinny birds would have stood a chance.
Really enjoyed. More.
M.

[Steven Hunley]

After dusk, stars started to appear. It grew calmer and the sea breeze was cool and refreshing on his face, moving the curtains ever so slightly. He watched her sleep. What a small lump she made under the sheet. It was an interesting shape, that lump, he had to admit.

When the sun came filtering through those same curtains he was at it again. Regarding her figure. It hadn’t been easy for a shy little boy, being the son of a king. Everyone on his home island knew he was the heir apparent to the coconut throne. Everywhere he went he was the center of attention. He was born sensitive, and would probably die the same way. Girls would approach him constantly, telling him this and telling him that, cow-towing as best they could, hoping to make a royal groom of him.

Because of all this attention, and because he was shy in the first place, he would be frustrated at times and act out in inappropriate manners. That’s how he got his name, Tawhiri. He learned to look at people, but didn’t engage them, but rather examined them as if they were under a microscope beneath a glass slide. He was rather detached. Mahevi hoped that under different circumstances, like when he sent him to Washington D.C., he might grow out of it.

He didn’t. He had no friends. His “Girlfriend” in fact, wasn’t a specific girl at all, but an amalgam of women he’d seen. The hair of one, the hips of another, and so forth. This is who he dreamt of when he thought of back home. He was twenty-four by now, and still a virgin. Almost unheard of feat in the islands.
Because of this trait of self-containment he was the perfect Long-Distance Post Man, and the fact the sloop that carried the mail hadn’t been by for a year didn’t bother him one bit. He never missed it at all.

Now, from out of nowhere, or I should say, from out of the sky, which is much the same thing, there was a woman on the island with him. He watched her sleeping just as he had done last night. She had been on her side but was now resting comfortably on her back. The sheet was supple and thin and revealed the twin peaks on her chest slowly moving up and down with the rhythm of her breath. They were fascinating to watch. He’d never watched a woman breathe before.

The woman, on the other hand was quite different. She was worldly and out-going. She was an achiever. This woman was used to the spotlight and hadn’t been out of it for years. Setting speed records, always in the headlines, used to the flash of the camera bulbs going off like machine gun fire in her face. Used to seeing herself in the headlines.
And another thing. She knew her body and men’s bodies as well. The prince and the record-setting flyer were different as different can be.

Do opposites attract? I wonder.

When she woke up he already had coffee. He’d always wanted to make coffee for a woman, but back in the coconut palace it had been forbidden by custom. They had servants for that. Not even his mother would get one. Doing manual labor was taboo.
But on his own island he set his own rules and taboos. Coffee making by the heir apparent was not forbidden here.

“I suppose you’d like coffee?”

She pulled the sheet close to her body and propped herself up.

“Why yes, thank you, I would.”

“After that I’ll give you the grand tour. We can comb the beach for anymore wreckage and see if anything can be salvaged."

“There won’t be much I’m afraid, I never thought a water-crash could tear up a plane.”

“That was part of the reefs. They’re hard as a rock.”

“Mmm” she answered, and then swallowed. “I see.”

When she sat up further to steady her coffee, the sheet drew taught over her chest and caused a reaction. The twin peaks grew prominent.

“Yes,” he repeated, “I think they’re hard as rocks.”

She looked at him quizzically, wondering why he’d repeated himself. His face grew flushed. He got up and quickly walked out through the beaded curtain. Even Polynesians make Freudian slips.

She leaned back and considered,

“Well, you know what they say, Earhart. Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing.”

Then she got dressed and put her shoes on for the tour.

[AuntShecky]

So that's what happened to Mrs. G.P. Putman.

You know, the opening in this yarn is similiar to how Maugham opened some of his stories!

I don't know if the opening "fact", that Chicago has the only drive-in post office is true. I just inserted that into the Google machine, and apparently the notion has been tried at least once before, in Texas, not Ill.:
http://www.postalreporternews.net/tag/drive-in-post-offices/

Also, I wonder if you could check your spelling. (Spell-check isn't really reliable.) For instance, I think you mean"mussel," not "muscle" shell.

Your characteristically sly humor is evident in this. Hope you develop this refreshing gift even further.

[Steven Hunley]

Dear Auntie,

I got my inspiration while riding a bus. They have these little TVs that give quizzes,and the question was ,"Where is the only drive-in post office in the world?" So I'm thinking, "Oh, it must be some place real advanced, really modern and cool like Sweden or Lithuania or something, something real-European like." The hand me Chicago, and it's still in use!

Can I trust BUS TV? I dunno. Then I got to thinking, "I thought it was someplace or something a little more exotic! Like more remote, at least?
What if you didn't drive in, what if you had to say, "paddle" in?"

I love Maugham and took it from there. And as for the mussels, what do I know about mussels, except that Molly Malone sold them "Alive alive Oh!"

Damn stupid word and it's spell-checker anyway! And thank you for reading. I'm about to solve the mysterious disappearance of Mrs. Putnam for all time.

[Steven Hunley]

She got dressed and put her clothes on for the tour. When she went to put on her pants, they were no longer pants. They were shorts! Just as she was wondering where the bottoms went a voice came from the other side of the curtain.

“Sorry I had to cut up your flying suit a bit. It was soaked in oil and fuel. It would have been toxic against your skin.”

She almost felt he could see through the beaded curtain, but knew he wasn’t looking when she parted the beads and peered through the space her fingers provided. He was taking something; it looked like a spear of some sort; off the mantel piece and was turned away.

“That’s all right,” she replied, “I understand.”

Her voice, and what she said, had a curious effect on his ears. It seemed to caress them with lilting grace. Like no voice he’d ever heard. It wasn’t the stunned weakened voice he’d heard last night. It was soft and yet full of strength, a most unique combination.

“Ready then?”

“Yes,” she appeared through the curtain and asked, “What’s that for?”

“For breakfast. Let’s go.”

Chickens scattered in all directions. A garden with an avocado tree, a lemon, an orange tree, and a few plants she didn’t recognize turned onto a path.

The path opened between tall palms on either side. That led off the beach and within a few steps they entered a forest. Everything seemed green, from emerald green to forest green and back again. The farther they walked, the deeper into the forest, the greener it became. Green, the color of the heart chakra, also known as Anahata.

This chakra is located at the center of the chest area and is linked to the heart, lungs, circulatory system, cardiac plexus, and the complete chest area. For these reasons she found it easier to breathe, as if a weight had been lifted from her chest, injured during the impact of the crash. But even more was happening.

She felt closer to this strange man who was leading her through the forest.

The heart chakra bridges the gap between the physical and spiritual worlds. The opening of her heart chakra allowed her to love more, empathize, and feel compassion.
Here, the leaves were the various colors of jade from the orient, and there, the color of malachite from cool wet copper mines in Chile.
Each step deeper into the forest was becoming far more than a simple hike or tour. To her heart it was becoming a transformation.

The trail led upward and onto a ridge, and when they were free of the trees, a magnificent view.
There were gullies and ragged peaks in every direction, all green and wild-looking, looking new and unspoiled. Nature was having its way with this island and everything on it. It was irresistible.

“Most of the island is rugged like this,” he pointed north. “But on our end it’s almost flat. I think the volcanic flow ran out of steam on our end. For that reason, and due to the currents, which are swifter on the higher end of the island, we’ve got the reef and the white sand coral beach. That’s what makes it accessible.

“And a good spot for a post office?”

“Yes, a good spot to land. The rest of the coastline is too wild.”

Her eyes wandered over the landscape. Some valleys were filled with bamboo. Amelia had some knowledge of islands. After all, she’d visited a few. The trail went downward to where it was flat. Tawhiri continued,

“Because of the volcano the island is riddled with lava–flow caves. Watch this.”

The land they stood on was green and relatively flat with small bushes, but here and there were large rocks. Tawhiri squatted down and picked one up. She noticed his strong brown arms, how they flexed and glistened. He raised it over his head. The large stone and must have weighed as much as she did. He threw it down.

It landed with a thud and vibrated the ground beneath her feet. She was standing a good ten feet away.

“There’s one beneath us right here,” he said matter-of factly. “It starts over there; see the depression where you can see only the tops of the banana trees? And it runs all the way to the cliffs overlooking the water.”

They walked over and took a look. A sink-hole or bubble provided an entrance to a cave, and banana trees, grapes, and a fig tree, finding shelter from the wind, were growing wild. It must have been two hundred yards from the coast to where it came out.

“Let’s go see what caused this island,” he said, and they continued to climb again. The trail grew steeper and steeper. Finally they reached the summit and she saw they were standing on the rim of an ancient volcano. Far below them, the caldron, once filled with fire, was now filled with water and reeds. The rim where they stood was narrow and dropped away quickly. They were so high up that sooty terns soared beneath them along the face of the cliffs where they nested.
Although she was a flyer, it nearly gave her vertigo to look over. But when she looked farther away, she could easily see the rim of the world, and off in the distance, clouds. The day was sparkling and clear, like a view from her cockpit. The invisible wind, rushing up the cliffs, pushed up the hem of her white cotton blouse, revealing her stomach, as flat and hard as an anvil.

“Those must be islands,” she said.

“Yes, I don’t know their names, or even if they’re inhabited.”

One spot nearby was broader and flat and grassy. They rested there to get away from the constant wind rushing up the cliff. It was warm. She sat down on the grass and looked up at the sky wistfully. His curiosity forced him to ask,

“So you were flying that plane?”

“Yes, and I crashed it too. We were about to set a record.”

“Set a record?”

“Uh huh, a round-the-world record. I wanted to show them a woman could do anything a man could do.”

He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her. She seemed feminine to him, in a different way from women he’d seen, but feminine none the less. He expected a woman who’d make a comment like that to look, well…to look more like a man.

“Them?”

“The men and the women of the world. I wanted to encourage women to fly, to go beyond their traditional roles.”

“I see.”

“I suppose out here that wouldn’t be so important to women.”

“Maybe not, but I can’t say, I don’t know too many women.”

She turned her head to regard him. He looked healthy and fit and strong. His hair shown like a wet raven’s wing in the sunlight, almost blue in its highlights. How could he say such a thing?
Amelia was big on curiosity. So much curiosity and boldness packed into a woman. It was hardly fair.

The next thing she said was something they were both thinking.

“I’m hungry.”

It was time for a trip to the tide pools. He hadn’t carried the spear all that way for nothing.

[Steven Hunley]

.
When they reached the flooded pools, it was just the right time. The tide has just gone out, leaving fish stranded in certain pools on rock ledges. They would stay that way until the tide came in again, unless they were speared first, like fish in a barrel.

The spear was a straight bamboo pole, and the point was carved ivory, made by Tawhiri himself, who was good with a knife.

He stood on the edge, not wanting to get his feet wet. Her green eyes watched intently.
Within minutes, he’d speared two fish.

“Let me try,” she offered. He handed her the spear. She missed, then stepped in got closer and missed again, blunting the point on the rocks. He took out his knife and sharpened the end.

“You have to be careful, and do it like this.” He gave it a sort of a snap.

One more fish wiggled on the end of the spear.

She tried again and failed. There was something she just wasn’t getting.

Taking off his sandals he stepped in behind her. Close behind her. Very close behind her.
His leg touched her leg, his groin touched her butt, his belly and chest were solid against her back, and his shoulder and arm were her shoulder and arm. He wrapped his left hand around her waist. Only their hands were apart.
They stood still, like statues. She felt his breath on her ear when he whispered,

“Now feel this.”

An orange fish, a Gobi, darted nervously back and forth. Tawhiri’s quick eyes measured the distance. He tossed the spear forward with force, but right at the end, pulled back with a snap. The Gobi was caught.

“It’s the barbs that get them; it catches their flesh on the way back. It’s called body English.”

She gave his technique a try. One more fish. Another try, another fish was hooked on the barbs. All in all, by the end of the afternoon, they speared more than enough.

When they left to return to the post office, Amelia thought to herself,

“For body-English there’s a lot of Kirabati in it, to my way of thinking.”

Something about the day made her feel warm and pleasant. It wasn’t only the sun. The island was working its’ magic, more than the fish were hooked, and wildness was about to reign free. The tropics, the island, and nature herself were about to have their way with them both.

[Steven Hunley]

Within a week she’d grown familiar with most of the island. His end of it, the post office and the garden behind that, and the other end with its tall windy cliffs on the rim of the ancient volcano. Between were forests, rich with good smelling flowers, laced with small fresh-water streams, and in the middle, on the waist of the island, a plane several football fields long. It was flat as could be, with stands of bamboo on one side, and hills leading up to ragged green summits on the other, their tops as sharp as a jagged-edged knife.

In one hidden pool, fed by one of these streams, she spent hours every day just relaxing. She would bathe and then dry off on a smooth rock in the sun.

Tawhiri didn’t worry about her; he thought he knew where she was most of the time. It had become her routine.
He slept late one morning, and when he woke up decided to go spear-fishing.

“Amelia?” he shouted. No answer.

“Amelia!”

Nothing still.

He decided to go without her and grabbed the spear off the mantel and looked for his knife. It wasn’t where he left it.

“She must have taken it,” he concluded, and left to pick up her trail.

Tawhiri followed the trail to the pool. But before he broke into the clearing he noticed a scraping noise and stopped and listened closely. It was an unusual sound. Unfamilar.
He crept up and looked through the leaves.

There she was with his knife. She had a small pumice stone from the beach and was sharpening the blade.

“Foolish woman,” he thought. “I’ve got the spear and there’s no fish of any consequence in this pool anyway. At least none worth having.”

She sharped it and sharpened it. On the rock next to her was a small white rectangular object.
It was his bar of soap! What on earth was she up to? That’s just when things began to get interesting.

Amelia stood up and began to unbutton her blouse. One by one her fingers unloosed them, working from the top to the bottom. She placed it on a nearby rock, then clenching her hands into fists she stretched lazily in the sun. Her back had a line that ran down the middle, and when she turned around, revealed the twin curves of her breasts with perfect pink rosebuds in the centers. She sat down and took off her shorts. She touched the blade with her thumb, testing it. She sharpened it further, turning it over with each stroke.

She held it up to examine its edge. The blade was shiny and new and unscratched, just like chrome. In its reflection she noticed the trees behind her, the lianas and bright orchids hanging wild, showing off their beauty, unashamed. Like a mirror. Amelia noticed one other thing in her knife-blade mirror.

A man watching through the leaves.

Bold Amelia. Brave Amelia. Show-woman Amelia, unashamed of her body, decided just then what to do.

Nothing.

She picked up the bar of soap and dipped it into the pool and then began to lather her legs. First one, then the other, slowly, with delicate circular motions, she urged the soap into lather, working her way up the curves of her legs. So far up she accidentally got soap on her silk panties. There was only one cure for this. Only one remedy would do. She slipped them off and in the process, got even more soap on them. It was easy enough to fix. She leaned over and rinsed them out in the water. Not kneeling mind you, but bending over at the waist, and dipping them in. Exhibiting her suppleness. She laid them flat on the warm rock to dry.

At this point he was ready to faint. The curves he was seeing, he’d never seen. They were magnificent. Soft up curves and down curves of white porcelain. Secret intimate spots concealed by forests of curls. She was nature revealing herelf all at once. This phenomenon, this force of nature, this woman, had undone him with a single stroke of her form.

Placing one foot on the smooth rock she slowly worked her way up her leg with the blade. Carefully. Tenderly.

When one limb was finished she worked on the other. She continually changed her position, her angle. She wanted him to miss nothing, to see each part of her in turn. Then she’d stretch and she’d pose, like a tropical Venus or Aphrodite posing for Titian or Botticelli, as if he were another Renaissance painter.


When she was finished she slipped into the pool and rinsed. Then she climbed on the rock to dry off in the warm sun. She looked over directly and he'd disappeared.

“He’s gone now. But he won’t forget. I’ve given him something to remember.”

Tawhiri climbed up to the top of the cliffs and looked down. Sea birds were soaring, white foaming waves were crashing far below and the rim of the blue world was dotted with white puffy cumulus clouds that his imagination could have made into anything.

But he saw none of it.

The island was working its magic.














 

[Steven Hunley]

Days went by, it’s hard to say how many. They ate and slept and played. One morning at the top of the cliff where the wind never ceased, she saw bird feathers caught in the updraft, go up and away and clean out of sight. That gave her the idea for her gliders.

The first ones were small. Made of bamboo and rattan and palm leaves. She’d make one and pitch it over the cliff and it would rise and be lost from site over the horizon. Then she made her adjustments. Eating lunch one day at the cliffs she pulled a glider out of her backpack and announced,

“Watch this.”

Tawhiri gave her his full attention and watched as she fit the pieces together and assembled a glider with a wingspan of three feet. How she’d folded it up was beyond him.

She walked to the edge of the cliff and with her blouse fluttering wildly, tossed it over the edge.
It didn’t dip or go into the distance like the others. It circled and circled, each circle higher than the last. He craned his neck farther and farther up until it got stiff. Soon it was so high it was hard to see and soon after that it was lost to their sight.

“That’s pretty impressive,” he said, rubbing his shoulder.

She stepped behind him and massaged his neck.

“That’s what rudders are for, just like on a boat,” she answered, “making your plane fly in a circle.”

It became one of their favorite places. Lying on the grass, out of the wind, near the edge of their own private world.

“It’s like Virginia Wolf’s Room with a View,” she said.

On nights when it got hot down below they would carry their things up to their room with a view and camp out. Watching the sunset was a favorite, as the trail was impossible to negotiate in the dark. It was always cool near the cliffs. They’d make beds on the soft grass and sleep with a thousand twinkling stars as their canopy.

It was romantic, idyllic, and peaceful. Nothing and no one was there to disturb their peace.

Until the night filled with lightning and thunder.

I had been a hot day, even for the tropics. They hiked the trail to the cliff top and watched the sun go down. Thunderclouds surrounded the furthest island off in the distance and they assumed they would head their way by morning and bring rain, rinsing the island clean. But something else was in the air.

That afternoon a small silver airplane buzzed far overhead. When Tawhiri looked through his binoculars he saw red spots on both wings. He gave them to Amelia.

“It’s Japanese,” she said. “It’s a Mitsubishi, a scout plane.”

“You never see planes around here.”

A kind of uncertainty, a sort of foreboding took hold. The sunset that night had been red, bloody red, with yellow streamers shot through it. It was something they’d never seen.
For some reason they decided to sleep closer than usual. They were shoulder to shoulder when thunder awakened them. At first they thought it meant rain. It was off in the distance, near the far-away island. First the flashes, then the thunder following at an interval. They got up and looked to see how far away it was, and count the interval between the lightning and the sound. It looked like they were going to get wet.

They could see it was close to the island farthest away, because although the night was pitch black, when the lightning lit up the sky it left the closer islands as silhouettes.
Yet he thought was like no lightning he’d ever seen, and she agreed.

“It’s too near the water,” she said. “I’ve never seen lightning like that.”

He took the binoculars out of their case. It was too far away, but when it flashed again he saw the outlines of something, unidentifiable things, floating in the water.

Thunder boomed and ripped through the air.

“That’s not thunder either,” he held her hand and pressed it. “It’s warships.”

It continued all night. The next day there were planes going overhead again, heading in the direction of the far-away island. Three days later there were a dozen. The island had been turned into a base with an airfield. The Japanese, drunk with victory after victory, were made up of highly disciplined career soldiers of all classes in one portion, and a well-armed Asian gang of cut-throat gangsters in another. As potent and poisonous as Saki.

Amelia looked through the binoculars and then handed them to him. He didn’t like what he saw in the sky. Neither one liked what they saw on the land any better.

On their white coral beach bits of wreckage, small broken things began to turn up. Splintered pieces of wood, parts of charred life-jackets, carried ashore by the currents.

“Look,” she said. “Sticking out of the sand, it’s a boot!”

She ran over, picking it up to show him. Dozens of small crabs scampered out and dropped to the sand.
She laughed and turned it over to see if any were left. They were gone, but instead she saw a piece of red meat with a white bone in the middle. She dropped it in horror and her eyes filled with tears.

They buried it that afternoon on the rim of the volcano.

Her eyes wandered over their island and saw the future as they passed over the flat plane in its’ middle.

“They’ll be here next,” she said.

“Here?”

“Yes, on this island. Over there,” she pointed. “It’s just long and flat enough for a landing strip.”

“We can hide in the caves,” he suggested.

“For how long, forever? Not me. I say we escape.”

Bold, brave, and inventive Amelia had a plan.

“We’ll make a glider and head south, there’s an island just over the horizon. I saw it on my charts just before I crashed."

He looked at her incredulously. “A glider big enough for both of us? How will we drag it up here?”

“In pieces, like my models. We’ll do final assembly on the cliffs.”

“Then we better get busy, we don’t have much time.”

to be continued...

[Buh4Bee]

This is a good piece, quite respectable.

[DocHeart]

Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_j1KGHOvSkM

[Steven Hunley]

They made the frame of bamboo. The fabric was palm-leaves plaited together. The whole thing was strapped together with bailing wire. The amount of work required, and the pressure on them both was enormous. Time was running out. They would keep watch from the cliffs, and
as they did, the thunder and lightning from the ship’s guns in the distance grew closer and closer. The Japanese were inching their way across the Pacific one island at a time. Finally, there was nothing but sea between them and the aggressors.

By that time the parts were on top of the cliff, ready for final assembly. Both of them were exhausted. The thunder and lightning disappeared from the islands within view.

“It’s quiet tonight,” she said with a whisper.

“Like a calm just before a storm.”

They sat on the fuselage of their crazy contraption and watched sun creep nearer and nearer the horizon. The clouds on the rim of the world that had been white turned dark with gold on their edges. It was the last sunset witnessed from their room with a view.

“Where will you go after this?” he asked.

“If we make it, I’ll go back to flying, doing my job. My husband I suppose.”

She looked down absently at the ring on her finger.

“What about you?”

“My father is getting older now. I’ll go back and help him. I’m soon to be king.”

The look she read in his eyes spelled regret.

She held her head in her hands. He saw that her eyes had grown moist. Then tears ran down her cheeks. She started sobbing, uncontrollably sobbing.

“What’s wrong?”

Covering her face with her hands she gasped between torrents of tears,

“I feel beat-up and robbed.”

“Robbed?”

“Robbed of this place, robbed of our room with a view, robbed of you.”

He took her and held her and kissed away her tears, something he’d learned from his mother. Trying to calm her he said,

“We’ll be on two separate paths. But there’s always the chance that they’ll cross in the future.”

That only made it worse. Serious tears began to run down her face again, her body trembling in response to his words. She wanted more than empty words and platitudes. She needed a promise.

From nowhere a squall appeared and clouds strung out over their heads within minutes. A mist was threatening to fall.

Her mouth sought his. Her lips were eager and thirsting. They were soft and so warm, he had to respond. He’d imagined it so many times. She lifted his hand with hers and placed it between her breasts.

“Can you feel my heart?” she whispered. “Can you feel that it’s breaking?”

“I…”

She unbuttoned her blouse and kissed his fingers and repositioned his hand again.

“Now, can you?”

He could feel it beating. In response, he throbbed with excitement. She was so warm to touch. Her blood coursed through her like fire.

“Yes, I can feel it. I…”

She moved his hand again, this time lower.

“And here?”

He said nothing. His response was to kiss her neck where it met her shoulder, and wrap his other arm around her waist.

The scene beneath was lost in darkness, but when lightning appeared, it lit up the sky and reflected in the silver surface of the ocean crashing below. Then it started to mist, an incredibly warm mist for that time of year. This storm had come from the south and was tropical down to its bones.

Tawhiri was finding it hard to let go of Amelia. Amelia was finding it hard to give him the chance.

The rain started in earnest then but it really didn’t matter, not to them.

Passion began to take over. Lightning flashed again turning raindrops to amethyst crystals that ran down her arms in purple sparkling rivulets. Senses heightened. She became so beautiful he couldn’t bear to look at her anymore and had to close his eyes. An embrace, a caress… and then a sigh. They shuttered at each other’s touch. Finally, seas kissed seas begetting oceans.

And when their storm was over, they panted with the breaths of a thousand exhausted angels.


In the morning they began taking the plane up to the edge of the dormant volcano. They started packing it up by dawn and making several trips. It was all on top by mid-afternoon. Fitting the pieces together was usually a matter of pushing a narrow pole into one with a larger diameter. Then they wrap it with balling wire and twist off the ends. They stepped back to regard it.

“That’s a real island aircraft, built island style,” she said proudly.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s make-shift as all get-out! Wonder if it will fly?”

“Oh sure, it will fly. The question is: for how long?”

They held hands and walked to the edge of their word, to take a last look from their room with a view.

Grey clouds near the outermost island were noted by them both. He took out the binoculars. It was diesel smoke. Warships were heading their way. The smoke streamed from their funnels straight behind them because of their speed, and because they were heading into the wind. The wind was pushing a storm their way and whitecaps began to form on the peaks of the waves. They felt if from their cliff. Suddenly the sky, which was already grey, was becoming black, as if a gigantic eagle, or Roc from a tale about Sinbad, had flown over them and spread its wings.

She grabbed her leather flying helmet. Tawhiri pushed the tail around so the rickety plane faced the edge and the wind, now howling up the cliff. He was going to push it over the edge and hop on.

“I’m ready,” he shouted.

“We’re going to do this you know,” she screamed back. “Let’s get this bird in the air.”

He pushed, at first with his back and then with his legs. So forceful was the wind , as soon as the wing got hold of it, the plane started to lift. Tawhiri’s feet left the ground and he hung on for life, then climbed in behind her.
Upward and upward they soared in a spiral. Then a gust caught them in its grip and they soared even higher. Clouds grew heavy and rain filled the air, making it hard to see. There was no windshield wiper because they had no windshield, only her goggles. Then she pulled out of the turn and took what she thought was the right heading. They had to keep as much height as possible, but from where they were they couldn’t see much. They could hardly see each other, much less where they were going. And the rain, how it rained. Drops pelted the wings like pieces of lead. Rain soaked the lashing of rattan, making them soft and loose.

The whole thing was coming apart at the seams.

She decided to sacrifice altitude for a clear view. By now the island should be in sight. When she dropped down a clear spot appeared, but no island. Nothing. The chart was mistaken.

She glided as far as she could, they both strained their eyes, but to no avail. Tawhiri squinted at something on the horizon.

“What’s that?” he pointed.

“Where?”

“That grey rectangle, right there!”

“It’s an aircraft carrier waiting out the storm! That’s why there’s no planes up. See? They’re all on the deck.”

‘You’ve got to get to it.”

“They might shoot us as spies.”

“I’d rather be shot than drowned.”

They glided closer and closer, cross-winds blew them back and forth, left to right. The ship grew nearer and finally, details appeared. Planes were parked with their wings folded up, lashed to the deck of the carrier. None had red spots on their wings. American. That what it was, American! It was the Lexington.

“I’m going to land on the deck. I didn’t expect a carrier-landing. I figured we land on some grass or sand, and that would slow us down. We’ve got no brakes. We might slip right over the edge.”

“Jump out as soon as we hit the deck,” said Tawhiri. “Or hope they see us and pull us out before we drown.”

The carrier grew larger and larger the closer they got. She used every skill she’d mastered, her intuition and cunning. They slid across the deck like butter on a hot griddle. Sailors in yellow raincoats ran and scattered since there’d been no warning, no engine sounds, no nothing. Just a large rickety pile of bamboo, palm and rattan sliding from one end to the other on the rain-slicked surface, all four hundred and fifty feet of it. It appeared and disappeared like magic.

In a moment the trash was over the edge and all that was left were two unconscious bodies lying on the deck in the rain.

When they gained consciousness it was in the infirmary. They were both bruised and scratched up, and Amelia had a large lump on the back of her head. A corpsman asked her,

“Who are you? How did you get here?”

She didn’t answer. She looked across the room at the figure in the bed. How dark his skin was against the white sheets! It was her Tawhiri. Who could forget Tawhiri? And though she remembered him, and the last few days, she couldn’t remember a thing before that.

“They’re both alright,” said the ship’s doctor to the captain over coffee. “But she’s had a concussion and her long-term memory is affected. She doesn’t even remember her name. It will come back someday, but it’s hard to predict when.”

After that the notes get a little fuzzy. Tawhiri called her Emily and that’s what they wrote down. That, and this description.

“A Jane Doe, probably named Emily, tan, and with long sandy hair washed up on deck in a storm with a native man of Kiribati of medium height named Tawhiri.”
The rest of the log went down with the ship at the Battle of the Coral Sea later. Only scraps survive.

That isn’t to say that our two went down with the ship however. Not at all. Amelia, who now called herself Emily, got off the ship in Pearl Harbor when it docked. A sailor on watch saw her and Tawhiri walking down the gang plank together, holding hands, just before they disappeared into the crowd that was there waiting to see the crew.

Somewhere on Kiribati a year later old Mahevi died and a new chief was installed on the coconut throne. His name was Tawhiri, which means Tempest in Polynesian. He was a kindly ruler, and greatly helped in his duties by his queen whose name was Emily.
They had five children, who were known for their light hair and daring. These princess and princesses of Kiribati were also known for freckles on their noses. Their mother, encouraged by her king by royal decree, was known for having smoothest legs on the islands.

That was years ago. But to this day, when the wind plays over the surf, children on the islands bring out their kites and gliders made of bamboo slivers and palm leaves. They fly them on fish lines and laugh at their shadows as they dance on the rippling sands.

And every island has a room with a view.


Thank you Allan Sillitoe for the title inspiration. I’ll miss your words the rest of my life.

[Buh4Bee]

Overall impressions:

The ending is satisfying to the reader in a very basic sense. I thought they were going to crash and was pleasantly surprised. I was reading this was the background idea that Amelia dies.

It's a nice love story- almost carefree. I think the difference of cultural background is handled in a "realistic" and pleasant manner. There is a great difference between an upper class liberated American woman and island royalty in the thirties.

The love scene was lovely, but I think it was a bit more than you need. You contrast the sky, ocean, and their love; this is a nice visual. I always enjoy your descriptions of the landscape.

I liked this part:
The scene beneath was lost in darkness, but when lightning appeared, it lit up the sky and reflected in the silver surface of the ocean crashing below.

But thought this could be trimmed:

Passion began to take over. Lightning flashed again turning raindrops to amethyst crystals that ran down her arms in purple sparkling rivulets. Senses heightened. She became so beautiful he couldn’t bear to look at her anymore and had to close his eyes. An embrace, a caress… and then a sigh. They shuttered at each other’s touch. Finally, seas kissed seas begetting oceans.

Well, now that I reread it, I'm not sure. I guess my point is, it felt like to much description. You're not telling, you are describing. (Hemingway- A Movable Feast).

You always write with a good pace. I think that is one of the reasons you are so popular, besides that fact that you can tell a great story.

[NoRule]

Hunley,
This was excellent; extremely enjoyable. I am so glad I clicked on "The Loneliness of the Long-distance Postman"
I genuinely extend these words of appreciation for your storytelling. I look forward to more.
NoRule

[Hawkman]

Hi Steven, this is, without doubt, a cracking little story. The only weakness is the start. I know you were having fun with the Maugham business but the link is abandoned as you develop the plot. As it is written, the entire tale is actually being told by Maugham, which you as the author are relating third-hand, and which at least to my mind, doesn’t work stylistically. My feeling is that as hearsay, which is how the story is introduced, it contains far too much detail: The conversations, the intimacy etc.

What I’m saying is that the story (and your own style) takes over and leaves the device you used to set it up behind. At the end of the tale one might have expected a return to Maugham and grandpa and their sundowners but it concludes without, and I can’t argue that the tale is better for it. But, I would suggest that you revisit the start and just concentrate on the story. It’s a damn good story and your style is strong enough in its own right to stand on its merit.

My recommendation would be to start with Twahiri on the beach, fill in a bit of the back story introducing him, and then let the story loose.

Great read though. Best - H

[Steven Hunley]

I thank all of you who waded through this monster. To Hawkman I answer, how about this for a start?

Tawhiri stood on the beach where he usually stood, surveying his watery realm. He stood there alone and watched. Nothing but breakers and sand crabs danced at his feet. He was aware, if he stood on his toes, that the next island would be just visible on the horizon. If his toes had been longer or his legs had telescoped farther, the one next to that would be visible too, sticking its green ragged head clear of the morning mist, searching for the rays of the tropical sun.
.
The nature of his soon-be-kingdom was mostly made up of waves and wind and foam. If anyone were to write of his adventures it would certainly be Somerset Maugham. If a man were ever to paint it, that man would be Paul Gauguin. Both had an unquenchable thirst for the wild, the untamed, by any other word or name, the islands.

‬When I visited Kiribati the first time it was in ‬1927. ‬Wasn’‬t so much of a place then you know. ...etc.

How you that be? Any opinions litnetters?

[Hawkman]

Hi Steve, I'm not sure about the telescoping legs... Maybe I'm wrong about starting with your protagonist on the beach. The business of seeing the islands on the horizon is repeated later in the story if you were to begin this way. The "soon to be kingdom" is also unnecessary as it's covered later in the story.

how about this:

Kiribati wasn’t so much of a place. A single church set up by missionaries, surf pounded ragged-rocked shorelines and the wind rushing up the cliffs. Brown and green palms curling over the constant foaming water flowing up and down silver beaches. No harbor. No quay. Nothing much, only nature at her finest. It was Maugham country, Gauguin would have felt at home there.

The main village had a chief named Mahevi, just like the king of the Typees in Melville's Typee. He had a son. Made the son an ambassador after he got old enough, and sent him to Washington on some sort of diplomatic mission. The boy was named Tawhiri, or tempest, because he was a trouble-maker as a child... etc.

I think that's all you need.

Like I said, a cracking tale well told.

Best, H

[Steven Hunley]

This is going to need some revisions, that's for sure. In the meantime thank you all for responding. At this point in history, this is an oldie but goodie.

[kiz_paws]

Excellent story.
Enjoyed it immensely.