Free The Boatmaker by John Benditt Page B

a walnut tree and were never perfectly square. Their edges ripple and curve, scalloped, no two alike. With time and wear, the grain is showing. The Mandrake is older than almost any building on Small Island.
    â€œYou’re back,” she says, smoke streaming from her nostrils. He stands, sweating a cold sweat in spite of the heat. He’s thirsty but everything in him turns away from water and alcohol. He stands with his boots planted as if he were a tree that had sprouted in the road outside the Mandrake and grown there for centuries.
    â€œ You’re back, I said. ” She speaks loudly, as if to a half-wit.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIs that all you have to say?”
    â€œI came back.”
    â€œI can see that for myself.” She takes whiskey and cigarette, sips and smokes to conceal her smile.
    â€œ I want to be with you. ” He feels as if the words are ripped from him the way seed was ripped from him again and again in the little room up the stairs. It went on thatway until each act was done in a realm far beyond pleasure or pain.
    â€œI hear you met Stig,” she says calmly, giving no sign she has heard what he said.
    â€œStig?”
    â€œThe Warden.”
    â€œThe Warden?”
    She inhales smoke and drink, looks him up and down with contempt. The innkeeper emerges from the doorway in his nightshirt, carrying a tumbler of whiskey. He sets it down in front of his wife, takes the empty and goes away, paying no attention to the boatmaker standing in the road.
    The boatmaker notices how the clip holds her hair, which is the color of the drink in her glass. The hair is too thick to be caught completely. Strands push their way out and fall over her ears. From time to time she notices one and pushes it back, where it stays a moment before escaping again.
    â€œ I came back to be with you. ”
    She sips, appraising the boatmaker’s unshaven cheeks, the purple around his eye, the dried blood on his cheek. She wants to feel nothing but contempt. But his condition and directness begin to soften her. She thought she had driven him away for good when his money ran out.But now he is back, standing there bloodied, without pretense. There are no men like this on Big Island. Even the dumbest are smoother than this, better at presenting the face they think she wants to see. This man, who apparently lacks the shrewdness to put on any face at all, is beginning to melt the ice around her heart.
    â€œThe Warden takes care of things. Like a sheriff. Or a parson.” She waves her cigarette. She isn’t slurring, but her gestures are bigger than usual. He knows that she never seems drunk, even when she’s been drinking for days.
    The need to hold her, pull her to him, is overwhelming. He feels like a man trapped in a burning house, walls and ceiling flaming down and every door and window blocked.
    â€œDid you hear what I said?”
    â€œA sheriff. Or a parson.”
    â€œYes, he’s the Warden—of this end of the island. There’s another on the other end. Stig may seem like a fool, but believe me, he’s not. And he’s not keen on having you around. I hear there was a lot of fighting. That wasn’t smart. Doesn’t do me a lot of good, now does it? Stig seems to think you should be on your way back to Small Island.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œStig can be persuasive. And not just with words. He can have you locked up. There are worse things than the Hostel.”
    â€œThe Hostel?”
    â€œThe place where you slept last night. And the night before.” She snorts to show that he is as low as the dust on her many-buttoned shoes.
    The boatmaker feels electricity flow through him, completing the circuit between the desire to protect her and keep her from harm and the need to choke her until her face turns blue, slap her until there’s blood at the corner of her mouth. He stands stock-still, clenching and unclenching his fists.
    The woman of the town