THE ART OF STORYTELLING

[Maria Kendall]

Society, Maria decides, has far too much society for such a select group of people.

   It must be the thousandth soirée they have attended - they of course meaning maria and her governess-turned-mother, Eleanor. It would not be a terrible thing to be so sought after if Maria were only slightly more naïve. The sole heir to the Kendall title and fortune, assured by the last will of her dear late uncle, Charles Kendall, a young woman without need of marriage or pretences. The daughter of a recluse who married below his station. It is an old scandal to be certain, one muttered only in passing. Something easily ignored by the heiress, if only to see the bright smile on her mother's face as she embraces company.

Likely I should do the same, Maria muses, but it is not the fellow ladies of the Ton that catch her attention, but the lilting and passionate voice of a gentleman nearby, recounting tales and intrigue that lead Maria closer, slipping easily into the small but eager crowd of listeners. She waits patiently, gloved hands folded carefully over her lower stomach, and lets her quiet self be forgotten until the crowd has dispersed, leaving the stranger with her singular audience. "You weave a fine story, sir." It is improper, the thought sticks itself to her like dried bookbinding glue, but Eleanor is elsewhere, and who else could introduce them? "is it all truth, or are you prone to embellishment?"

[Ben Fowler]

words • tagged Maria Kendall • credits In the days before the war, Ben had fond memories of the country estate where Squire Percy and his family resided. He now knew that it was a modest residence, and the manor homes belonging to the nobility were far grander by far. He'd managed to keep up a regular correspondence with his friend, Captain Henry now that he was stationed with the Channel fleet to keep the French from leaving Brest. It wasn't a particularly noteworthy commission, and the sloop was only fourteen guns. But it was a ship and a better command than being stuck on land. It came as a genuine surprise to everyone when an old acquaintance extended an invitation to the lieutenant to join him at his country residence. The captain, formerly of a sixth-rate frigate, had been court martialed for the loss of a ship, but everyone who knew him and his situation were well aware that it was just a formality. While he awaited the date, he'd become somewhat enamored with the social scene and was pleasantly surprised to hear that Ben was in London for the season. And so, for the few days he was to stay with his acquaintance, Ben was free of his host Alexander. He found himself among mixed company regaling them with tales of his time in the East Indies. Even a story about finding water or a fresh tree to turn into a spar turned into a heroic tale of life and death for the small party sent to scout through uncharted jungles. "So there we were as night fell. Dark shadows all around us, and from the shadows came deep growls. Monkeys shrieked and hollered, and the leaves carry sound for miles. You could never know if danger was nearly upon you or off in the distance. Jacob lit the fire. It was the first touch of civilization, and the glow warded off the worst of the jungle's predators. But they sat just outside the light watching. Waiting. Ready to pounce while we slept or if the flames died too low." The anxiety he felt at the beginning of the evening had all but melted away. This was where he belonged standing before an enraptured audience. In another life, Ben was sure that he would have taken after his father and preached scripture from the pulpit. Instead, his life was anything but quiet and mundane. The pain in his chest didn't bother him as much when he was speaking, and he could almost forget the twinges in his hand as he gesticulated and partially acted out his story. "Sweat poured off our backs like the wet season monsoons, and no one dared stop for water to quench parched throats. The men hacked away at the leaves and brush, and with every step closer to the shore, the jungle closed in again around us. All you could hear were the heavy pants of breathing and the leaves crushed underfoot. But leopards are silent hunters. They stalk from the trees, so you'll never hear them approach. Every rustle hid death, and every whoop and cry from a bird was a distraction. And then. Jacob stumbled forward crying out as he fell. Onto crystal white sand with a glittering ocean before us. Daedalus sat low in the bay with her sails out to dry. The salty tang of sea air refreshed out lungs from the stifling warmth of the jungle. The crew fell upon the warm sand like moths to a light. The longboats pulled ashore just where we'd left them. And most importantly, the rough hewn trunk for the new spar was intact. In a few days time with the carpenter and his mates slaving away, we'd at least be able to leave this accursed island." Once the crowd dispersed, he was left standing and starting to feel the pain in his body once again. The captain promised to bring him something to drink and find a place where he could sit down if need be. He looked slightly startled by the young woman still standing there. He hadn't noticed her during the story, but he rarely noticed his audience as anything but a sea of people. "Thank you, my lady." He rubbed his leg and glanced sideways. Usually people left him alone except for the brief introductions. Being approached was still unfamiliar. "There is enough truth to it. As for what might be embellishment, revealing that would take the enjoyment out of it. The facts are all true."

For the voyage is done and the winds don't blow