DECKHAND

What wonders in his eyes show a reflection there of crooked mountains or of smoothly flowing rivers perhaps a perfect little bay somewhere seen through blowing palm-fronds whispering softly

and monotonously. sudden hiss of rain

darkening the tropical water and clouds trailing smoky veils hiding a while the sharp black lava peak

So does the sailor standing by the rail

with memories of love like a sunset lurid

in his heart: what words recalled he prefers

not to speak: "I wish you could take me with you."

From back aft, the second-mate shouts an "all clear" when the end of the spring-line comes through the chock and the ship begins her long silent severance from the shore.

Bare seas to face now for long weeks ahead

of work to do, watches to stand, cargo to load

or unload. mind and muscle to move

the burdens of the world. no time for dreaming, or not much, but day after dull day to see to it that the ship goes on except in sleep to cry out your last word said.

Landsmen look to the sea for their deliverance, as seamen to the land. where is it to be found? in memories the heart stores up? or in the severe pronouncements of a kinder Fate

which knows more than we – often what will be good for us. From TOWARD OTHER SHORES by Forrest Anderson.

"Clay? Lucia had to go into town. Come on down and handle the bars for us."

Tommy grinned to himself. That was like Mario-to camouflage some giant step in an aerialist's training with some such matter-of-fact request. He did some mental arithmetic. Clay Santelli was fifteen, and he'd spent almost two years in ground training and the elementary routines of swinging, swinging, swinging and falling into the net. Mario's brother Johnny had let him make a few crosses in a mechanic-the safety belt used to give young flyers confidence at first. Tommy remembered another kid of fourteen, who'd come down from an ordinary, monotonous training session and had been al16 mattachine REVIEW

ready on the ladder when Mario had said, offhand, not even looking his way, "Oh, Tom, you ought to be able to manage without the mechanic today. Here, give it to me, and go on up."

In memory he could sympathize with what Clay must be feeling. Then he snapped back to awareness at the silence in the hall and Clay's voice at last, hesitant;

"Well, I guess it would be all right. Okay."

"Listen-" Mario stopped, and Tommy could tell from his tone that he was swallowing rage, when he finally said "Well, Clay, if you can spare us half an hour-"

"So okay, okay," said Clay defiantly, "just let me get on my gym clothes. Shut the door and go on, I'll be down in a minute."

Mario started down the stairs and Tommy took a fast step or two and caught up with him. "Mario, what the devil-!"

"Isn't it obvious? Angelo's warned him not to associate with his wicked cousin."

"Angelo wouldn't—”

"How else can you figure it? Clay's been devilling me all winter-to let him come up on the board and throw the bar when we're practicing. I asked Lucia to invent an errand in town today, just so I could ask Clay without making a big thing of it.”

"Anyway he's coming." Tommy pushed open the door of the big, barnlike practice room.

"Like he's doing us a big favor." Mario kicked off his shoes and threw them into the box; bent to tie the laces of his flying slippers. Tommy stood watching him for a minute, then, hearing Clay on the stairs, shrugged and went to his own end of the flying rig.

He started up hand over hand, and with the detachment of years of training, he pushed it all aside, letting conditioning and concentration take over. Clay stood beside Mario on the pedestal, catching the trapeze with the long wire hook as Mario left it on each swing; dropping it again as Mario swung from Tommy's hands back to the bar. During a brief break, Tommy looked back at them, together on the high perch. How much alike they were-! In the thin, long-legged boy, dark hair tousled, a pair of patched, worn practice tights thin across the knees and mended at the feet, he could see a younger Mario, all stringy long arms and cocky insolence and a sort of unconscious, childish grace. Tommy felt an almost painful tenderness. Mario had always been so much older. By the time they had met, Mario was already grown, confident, precise. Tommy, always racing to keep up with him, had put his own boyhood away from him with both hands, as fast as he could. It made him ache; to see what Mario had been before they knew each other.

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