Events slowly caught the usual route as time started flying by. Finn forgot the inn incidence and Mary had countless things to take care of especially concerning Tim. The slum children had eyes hovering around Tim for some time now as his shorts always tinkled with coins when he ran around with them on the beach. Some ambitious and relatively older lads followed him with cruel penchant. Now and then Tim would return empty with marks of struggle. Chiding him Mary asked him to fear not for some time and told him to face the sand laden wind across his face. Then she came up with some of her feminine strategies, of evading the scene by showing up too early and advised the same for his exits. They worked little and Tim’s appearances around tourist ships and boats were diminished to being a tourist himself. He watched those boys dive from a distance with an eye of a spectator watching a ball game being a player himself.
Soon Tim was seen collecting tiny sea shells for her sister’s meticulous job of beading them into cheap saleable shapes. He found selling those articles tougher than taking deep breaths and diving into water for coins. He still fancied standing upon the deck scaffolding and making his sun tanned slender body erect into a splash into water. Now he would topple his own coins and watch them disappear, then dived for them often losing them. Still his sister was very happily contended as they were safer now.
Finn and his situation did not change much. He cursed himself for having nothing to earn his living from but the labor of emptying and filling goods boats with heavy logs, coal, salt and more such stuff. Though he kept scripting his dull vibes, idle waiting for good winds to turn up his way.
One evening he was sitting by a beach rock, his knees curled up against his chest and his hands wrapping them holding a paper in front of his eyes. He had just finished writing something on it and was going through it. Then he looked towards the horizon as if listening to the hiss coming from the sun dipping into water where it met the sea. The same time around Tim and Mary were returning to their shack walking on the wet sand with sea water splashing against their feet from time to time. Both were pretty elated going to feast up their whole basket sold that day.
They crossed Finn casting their dark shadows on him and he casually looked towards them. Even Tim and Mary saw him but failed to recognize him from the distance as it was already turning dark and with their own shadows on his face. Mary saw a paper fluttering in air in his hand and suddenly it struck her. “It was the same place around she caught ‘the rose song’ floating like a litter in air, and is this the person who wrote it?” She thought.
Mary could not help self approaching him. A little more than five yards and she recognized the face from the inn as well as the nerd of the slum. This slowed her down, but she had come too far to return. When Finn saw her coming and grew suspicious that she was coming to him he stood up and Mary ended up standing in front of him. For a moment she gazed at him and then sheepishly asked, “Did you write that rose song?”
Soon Tim was seen collecting tiny sea shells for her sister’s meticulous job of beading them into cheap saleable shapes. He found selling those articles tougher than taking deep breaths and diving into water for coins. He still fancied standing upon the deck scaffolding and making his sun tanned slender body erect into a splash into water. Now he would topple his own coins and watch them disappear, then dived for them often losing them. Still his sister was very happily contended as they were safer now.
Finn and his situation did not change much. He cursed himself for having nothing to earn his living from but the labor of emptying and filling goods boats with heavy logs, coal, salt and more such stuff. Though he kept scripting his dull vibes, idle waiting for good winds to turn up his way.
One evening he was sitting by a beach rock, his knees curled up against his chest and his hands wrapping them holding a paper in front of his eyes. He had just finished writing something on it and was going through it. Then he looked towards the horizon as if listening to the hiss coming from the sun dipping into water where it met the sea. The same time around Tim and Mary were returning to their shack walking on the wet sand with sea water splashing against their feet from time to time. Both were pretty elated going to feast up their whole basket sold that day.
They crossed Finn casting their dark shadows on him and he casually looked towards them. Even Tim and Mary saw him but failed to recognize him from the distance as it was already turning dark and with their own shadows on his face. Mary saw a paper fluttering in air in his hand and suddenly it struck her. “It was the same place around she caught ‘the rose song’ floating like a litter in air, and is this the person who wrote it?” She thought.
Mary could not help self approaching him. A little more than five yards and she recognized the face from the inn as well as the nerd of the slum. This slowed her down, but she had come too far to return. When Finn saw her coming and grew suspicious that she was coming to him he stood up and Mary ended up standing in front of him. For a moment she gazed at him and then sheepishly asked, “Did you write that rose song?”
