A pile of baggage and the impatient cries of children marked the East India Trading Company’s territory. A short queue had formed in front of a rough table, only two or three men at any one time; prospective passengers.
Lilian’s owners were confident in their ship, and in their men. Enough so, in fact, to send her untested keel to the Americas.
And Brion MacEean, a man who hated to travel, was going with her.
“No, sir,” he said, in response to the lieutenant’s question. “I’m going alone.”
“Purpose of voyage?”
“Business, sir.”
“Very well. Lilian sails tomorrow; you may remain ashore, or move directly into your berth. The barge will be here shortly to take the passengers who choose the latter. What is your name?”
MacEean pronounced it as clearly and carefully as possible, mangling the natural sound so that the man might spell it right, but to no avail; he dutifully printed, “BRIAN MCIAN” just as they all did. The businessman gave a quiet sigh and corrected him, the apology and proper spelling rolling off his tongue with all the ease and weariness of long use.
Fifteen minutes later he stepped into Lilian’s barge. His final thought on English soil was a half-hearted, I wonder if the Americans will be better about it.
This was an assignment for my Creative Writing class. We chose a gravestone from a local cemetery and wrote a story - any story - about that person. This one caught my eye.
