Jasper Cricklebone
Is an infrequent visitor to Nocturna.
He has been a member
For longer than anyone
Cares to remember.
He visits the city rarely.
When he does,
He seeks the sanctuary
Of the club.
It is said that Jasper resides
In the nearby mountains,
In a crooked stone house
Somewhere above
The last reliable road,
Where the clouds come down
To knock upon his windows,
And crows gather
On his chimney pots
To exchange the morning news.
Every few months
He attends the club
To sell or trade his exotic wares
In the Trade Room.
Which is where we find him,
Deep in conversation
With Edith Dustmore.
Also a forager,
But of the ocean’s edge.
She trades
The finest kelp,
Sea salt,
Seaweed,
Cockles,
Mussels,
And anything else
she may find.
Where the restless sea
Meets the land.
They both look to be in well
In their sixties,
Although neither
Has ever seen
The slightest reason
To discuss exactly where
In their sixties they might be.
Jasper has
A weathered old face,
Browned by sun,
Roughened by wind,
And deeply lined
By many winters
Spent wandering the high country.
A large grey beard grows wildly
Across his chin,
Accompanied by
An equally unruly moustache.
His wavy grey hair
Falls to his collar,
Apparently having
Reached some private agreement
With its owner
Never again to encounter
A comb.
He wears
Heavy olive-green wool
And tweed,
A sturdy outdoorsman’s suit
With a matching Norfolk jacket.
Upon its lapel is pinned
A single white Edelweiss flower.
Beneath the jacket he wears
A woollen waistcoat,
A white checked shirt,
And an olive tie that has not been straight
Since sometime last century.
Brown leather
Fingerless gloves
Cover his enormous hands.
Upon his head
Sits a dark brown
Homburg hat,
With a large black
Crow’s feather
Tucked proudly
Into the ribbon.
Edith Dustmore
Is quite his opposite.
Short,
Stout,
And solid enough
To withstand
The worst moods of the sea.
Her round face is pale and rosy,
Weathered by salt winds
And framed by wisps
Of silver-grey hair
Escaping from beneath
A dark woollen headscarf.
She wears an old black
Heavy woollen dress,
Buttoned high at the neck,
Over a severe
High-necked blouse.
Around her shoulders
Is wrapped
A thick knitted shawl,
Coloured in all
The moods of the ocean.
Deep blue.
Storm grey.
Sea green.
And the pale white
Of breaking waves.
It is fastened across her chest
By an enormous brooch
Fashioned in the likeness
Of a mermaid,
Who appears slightly annoyed
To have been
Taken from the sea.
The two old friends
Stand opposite one another
Across a table
In the Trade Room.
Between them
Are treasures.
Impossible treasures.
Edith reaches
Into her basket.
“I’ve brought you something.”
“You always do.”
She removes a small glass jar.
Inside it is a wave.
A perfect,
Tiny,
Living wave.
It rises,
Curls,
And breaks
Against an invisible shore.
Over
And over
Again.
Jasper holds it
To the light.
“Winter sea?”
“January.”
“Storm?”
“Terrible one.”
“Anyone drowned?”
“Not that I know of.”
Jasper frowns.
“Shame.”
Edith stares at him.
“For the wave.”
“Oh.”
She considers this.
“Yes.
I suppose.”
Jasper places
The jar carefully
Upon the table.
“I’ll give you
Three mountain echoes
For it.”
“Old ones?”
“Very.”
“How old?”
Jasper opens
A small wooden box.
From somewhere inside
Comes the distant sound
Of a man calling a name.
The name is repeated
Again,
And again,
Growing quieter as it travels
Across mountains
That no longer exist.
Edith listens.
“That’s a good echo.”
“Found it above the snow line.”
“Two echoes.”
“Three.”
“Two
And something useful.”
Jasper thinks.
He reaches
Into his coat
And produces
A pine cone.
Edith looks at it.
“A pine cone?”
“Never falls down.”
“What?”
“Drop it.”
Edith does.
The pine cone
Falls upwards.
It disappears
Into the rafters.
There is a pause.
A muffled knock
Comes from the ceiling.
Edith looks up.
Jasper looks up.
“Bugger.”
“Useful, you said.”
“Usually.”
Edith shakes her head.
“Two echoes.”
“Done.”
They shake hands.
Edith reaches
Into another basket.
She produces
A length of black seaweed
That whispers
Whenever the moon
Is full.
Jasper offers
A stone that becomes warm
When snow is approaching.
Edith presents a pearl
That contains
The memory
Of a drowned sailor’s
Favourite song.
Jasper counters
With a small glass bottle
Filled with
The scent
Of the first snowfall
Upon an untouched mountain.
Edith has
A piece of driftwood
That points
Towards whatever
Its owner misses most.
Jasper owns
A compass
That refuses
To point north
And instead
Directs the traveller
Towards the nearest warm fire.
Edith considers it.
“Now that’s useful.”
“I thought you’d say so.”
“What do you want?”
Jasper looks
At her collection.
“Hmm.”
His eyes settle
Upon a tiny shell.
“That.”
Edith immediately
Covers it
With her hand.
“No.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Then you won’t mind
Giving it to me.”
“I mind enormously.”
Jasper grins.
“What does it do?”
Edith sighs.
She lifts the shell
To her ear.
From within it
Comes
Not the sound of the sea,
But laughter.
Distant laughter.
Children playing
Upon a beach
On a summer afternoon
Long ago.
Jasper’s smile fades.
He listens.
For a moment.
Then hands it back.
“Keep it.”
Edith places it carefully
Inside her coat.
Neither says anything.
Old friends
Know when
Silence is part
Of the conversation.
Their trading continues.
A jar of fog
Collected from
A lighthouse staircase.
A feather
From a bird
That only flies
During eclipses.
Seven grains of sand
From a beach
That appears
Once every hundred years.
A mountain flower
That blooms
Only when
Someone nearby
Tells the truth.
A lump of coal
That dreams
It is still a tree.
A bottle of rain
That also fell upwards.
A seashell
That remembers
Every ocean
It has crossed.
A pebble
That becomes heavier
The further
It travels from home.
Eventually,
The table is empty.
The baskets are closed.
The boxes
Are locked.
And both
Are entirely convinced
That the other
Has somehow received
The better bargain.
Which is the foundation
Of all successful trade.
Later,
They sit together
In one of the deep booths
Of the Trade Room.
Two glasses of gin
Rest upon the table.
Edith raises hers.
“To the sea.”
Jasper raises his.
“To the mountains.”
They drink.
Edith settles
Into the leather booth.
“You should visit me.”
“I should.”
“You always say that.”
“I always mean it.”
“I have a spare room.”
“So do I.”
“Mine overlooks the ocean.”
“Mine overlooks
Three valleys.”
“I’ll come in summer.”
“You said that
Last summer.”
“Did I?”
“And the summer before.”
Edith sips her gin.
“Well.
You could come
To me.”
“I could.”
“The train goes
Almost all the way.”
“I dislike trains.”
“You dislike the sea.”
“I don’t dislike it.”
“You called it
‘A large unnecessary puddle.'”
“I was being affectionate.”
Edith snorts.
Jasper drinks.
After a while he says,
“You’d like the mountains.”
“I’ve seen mountains.”
“Not my mountains.”
“What’s special
About your mountains?”
“They’re mine.”
Edith considers this.
“Fair enough.”
Jasper leans back.
“You’d like my house.”
“Too cold.”
“There’s a fireplace.”
“Too high.”
“Wonderful views.”
“Too many goats.”
“There are hardly
Any goats.”
“How many?”
Jasper pauses.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you count
The ones on the roof.”
Edith closes her eyes.
“No.”
They sip their gin.
“You should come
To the coast,”
She says.
“Too wet.”
“You live in clouds.”
“Different kind of wet.”
“Fresh fish.”
“Too many bones.”
“Sea air.”
“Rusts the buckles.”
“Beaches.”
“Sand.”
Edith nods.
“Yes.
Sand.”
“Gets everywhere.”
“That it does.”
Another silence.
Comfortable.
Ancient.
The sort of silence
Only possible between people
Who have known
One another
For longer than either
Can properly remember.
“Next spring, then?”
Says Jasper.
“Absolutely.”
Says Edith.
“You’ll visit?”
“Without question.”
“And you’ll come
To the coast?”
“Certainly.”
They raise
Their glasses.
Both knowing
Edith Dustmore
Will remain
Beside her beloved sea,
Walking the tide line
At dawn,
Searching among
The strange things
The ocean
Sometimes decides
To return.
And Jasper Cricklebone
Will remain
Among his hilltops,
Walking beneath
Clouds,
Searching the high places
For things
The mountains
Have spent centuries
Trying to hide.
Perhaps
They will never
Visit one another.
Perhaps
They never need to.
For every few months,
The mountains
Come down
To Nocturna
In Jasper’s pockets.
And the sea
Comes with Edith
In her baskets.
And there,
In a quiet booth
Of the Trade Room,
Over two glasses
Of gin,
The ocean
And the mountains
Meet.
