Dear Clair....

June 22

Dear Clair,

I write you now from the deck of a ship bound over the Pacific Ocean. You know I’d gone to meet with an old friend of mine about possible employment. Well, I have met with him and his patrons and agreed to join their team. It is an easy assignment. They are looking to discuss with the chieftain of a tribe of foreign Indians of some sort about coming to the World’s Fair next year in St. Louis.

Yes, I know I said I would not be gone for long, but when you think about it, a few weeks to get there plus some more to wait for the bosses to finish their negotiations and even more to come home again still only adds up to a few months. I will be home before winter truly settles itself into place.

I miss you, though.

Luckily, I have a remembrance. If you have reason to be going through those photographs we had made up during your cousin Florence’s wedding, do not panic at not finding the one we sat for. I will not lose it, but I had to have something more than just my thoughts and memories of you to get me through this trip.

I know I just said it wouldn’t be a long journey, but any separation is hard. Having your picture before me makes it all seem bearable and worthwhile. The pay for this will be really good; and, with it, we can see about our future.

Yes, I said “our”.

Even though this picture is merely shades of black, white, and grey, I can see you in all of your luxurious, red-haired glory. To think of living without your deep, emerald eyes peering at me is just unfathomable to me. I will write you soon. Yes, I promise.

Yours,

David

July 1

Dear Clair,

I trust you are well and in good health. This is not the letter I had hoped it might be. I do hope that my previous note reached you in a timely manner. That would have let you know where I have gone…where I am, I should say…and when you might expect to see me once more.

I know I told you I would write. My promise is only partially neglected, and I hope that you will not think me thoughtless not to have kept it more thoroughly than this. From what I have gathered, the Spanish never truly took the majority of this section of the Cordillera mountain range; and, even now, the elements of what we take for granted in a civilized environment are a bit lacking.

There is a small village at the base of our approach through the mountains, and the mail seems to end at that spot. My friend assures me that they do bring letters and parcels further up into the mountains, but that they do so by horse and burro and the whims of passing travelers or merchants.

I had almost rather trust to throwing message laden bottles into the Pacific.

I thought, perhaps, he was mistaken in his appraisal of the situation, and tried speaking with some of the people running the trading post in the village. That gained me the following information. Either my Spanish is worse than I recall or else the Spaniards have not gotten around to teaching even their foreign tongue to the natives here.

So I will have to be satisfied in thinking on you and about you, and hoping you do the same of me. It is not an easy thing to accomplish, let me assure you. I lie upon my place in camp and get what rest I can, but my sleep is often troubled with the fear that I will never see you again.

To rest my worries, I have started this journal of thoughts and impressions to let you know how my trip proceeds, and to what travails I have put myself since signing on to come find these “dog eaters” for the Exposition in St Louis. It is my hope that I will put together something for you to read one day to let you see more of who I am, as well as to give myself ease when things are quiet and I find the yearning for a glimpse of you…a hint of your perfume…an echo of your sweet voice…growing to be more than I can withstand.

Yours,

David

Jul 10

Dear Clair,

We have been moving into the mountains proper, finally, after being bogged down in rain and heat for over a week. If the ground was spongier, I’d say we were sitting in swampland. I tried writing daily, at first, but kept finding myself looking at the empty pages. It turned out for the best to just pick up and write when moved to do so, rather than to stick to some sort of regimen.

Also, the humidity here in the “marsh” has kept the paper of the book too damp to write upon properly. So, I have waited until we moved into a slightly higher, less damp elevation. Today, we have begun to move, as I said, into higher ground and the climate here is just enough drier that I decided to give it another try. It works much nicer, so I eliminated the pages until this point as they were smeared beyond belief.

The standing water and streams also make me think of flatter, wetter terrain complete with all that goes with it. Frogs, fish, snakes, even alligators all dwell within a stone’s throw of our various camps. I also saw a dragonfly this morning. It was large and green and purple and made me think of the ones we used to chase after down by the swimming hole on my grandfather’s farm. Which, of course, caused me to remember how you looked the last time we were there.

Do you recall how silly and giggly we were? How I pursued you with tickling fingers until you dove into the water to escape? And how all the playfulness and laughter turned into so much more as I helped you from the pool?

While it would have been improper for us to have gone much further than kissing and touching one another’s faces and limbs, I must admit how much I wanted to peel your sodden undergarments from your sleek, pale body and just look at you. To see the little goose pimples along your arms and legs, and to take in how the combination of cold air, colder water, and being naked in my presence affected the rest of you.

I have missed such moments terribly.

Yours,

David

Jul 13

Dear Clair,

Things went quite well in talking with the natives. Or, at least, so they tell me. I am, naturally, not privy to the inner goings on of the reason we have come to this country. We have had some minor altercations with some of the other tribes. And even with individuals in the one we have been dealing with. The men and women are quite fierce looking, with their tattoos and the way the men dress in nothing but loincloths…their hard muscles visible and every tension they have towards you apparent with but a glance.

But, for the most part, our “hosts” have been hospitable. They have not the space within their huts for our entourage, so we have been quartered in an abandoned mine of some sort. I took it for merely caves, at first, but then the signs of workmanship in the walls, floors, and ceiling became obvious. The weather here has been wet, but bearable, and several men in the company tried to camp outdoors only to discover the nocturnal habits of some of the local wild animals.

Remember when I helped ferret out that cougar that had come down into some of the pasture areas? That cat was nothing compared to what we had to deal with here.

Although, truth be told, the monkeys are more troublesome than anything predatory. They have been into anything and everything at some time or another. Supplies, clothing and blankets, personal effects…you name it and they have messed with it, or plan to.

Yesterday, they got into several of the camp cook’s storage bins and wreaked absolute havoc. Flour, sugar, baking soda…all the dry goods you could want were strewn the length of the mess tent. I had to tell you about it, as it reminded me of your sister’s attempt at making you a birthday cake last year. I know, I know, I was her trusted aide and accomplice in furtive baking, but as I had only been away from the kitchen for moments (luring you away as part of being a good accomplice of course), I had not envisioned the disaster Sarah could make when left to her own devices.

She takes after her sister that way, I dare say.

Yours,

David

Jul 16

Dear Clair,

As I sit here, just outside the caves where we have been forced by weather to establish a more secure camp, I look out over the edge of the cliffs and marvel at how similar the view from this mountain is compared to the one from the mountains of our home. Even the trees are similar…oak and pine and others I recognize but cannot name.

The similarity does not hold, however. The sky is too blue. The weather is still too rainy, and this has an effect upon the way the forest grows. That is a detail of being up close to things. From the height at which I look down, the lower land is much the same as back home, and the peaks in the distance are covered in white just as ours. It is like a moment frozen in time from the journey I made over the ocean to get here. The foam on the waves had a way of reminding me of the snow-covered peaks I had left behind.

All of which brings me back to thoughts of you. Of the peaks I have yet to see.

I used to lie back on the hillock where we watched clouds pass by and dream of the day when I might peel you out of the plain clothes of the farm. Not just for wanting to see you as God made you, but to dress you back again in something better than garb we were used to.

I wanted to pull back those fiery locks. To buy you something fanciful and elegant, perhaps made of imported, outrageously expensive material…there’s a blue lace some of the other lads have spoken of…and then to just sit back and enjoy how you look and take pleasure in your reaction to wearing such finery.

Before relieving you of it to show you pleasure of a different sort altogether. If you only knew how much I want you.

Yes, like that.

Yours,

David

Jul 20

Dear Clair,

I know these notes aren’t going beyond my hands, but I do intend for you to read them when I return, and do not know what made me write what I did in the last one.

That’s not true.

It is perfectly clear to me that the old adage is more than merely a saying. Absence from your company has, indeed, made my heart…all of me, really...grow fonder. Fonder both in terms of being foolish as well as in the love and desire I have for you.

I wish to be able to escape this dismal place. When not on watch, or drafted into duty as a porter or pressed into service helping in dispensing food or medicine, these caves are abysmally dark and cold. Yes, I told you we were in a mine. But, when it has closed, what is a mine but a hole in the ground or in the side of a mountain.

To me, that makes it a cave.

Fortunately, they tell us things are proceeding apace, and the natives we came for are close to agreeing to return to the United States with us. I would to God they would just hurry things up.

It has not really been long. I think the trip here took more time than the discussions and ironing out of details with the tribal chieftain or elders or whatever they have that dictates the fate of their group. But both have been entirely too long when I think of how I might have spent this time in your arms.

There, I said it.

I want you, Clair. I want to hold you. I want nothing more out of life than to love you forever and always.

Through thick and thin, good and bad, I need to have you near me. I want to feel the softness of your skin against mine, and to hear you speak or sing or whisper or even shout my name. Even the most decadent candy would be as bitter as ash if I could not share it with you. To watch you bite into each morsel would be almost as thrilling as discovering the taste of it upon your lips as I kiss you again and again.

Do you remember the time we caught Jonas and Mariah in the hayloft?

We both had laughed and made fun of them for hours. We shared tale after tale of catching them holding hands or kissing or worse, and swore on crossed hearts not to ever let such a crazy thing as that come between our friendship.

I will have to submit myself to your judgment over this. Scandalous, I know, but it cannot be helped. I have had too much time to reflect upon you, me, us. I love you, Clair Hendricks, and cannot be dissuaded otherwise.

Yours,

David

Jul 28

Dear Clair,

Well, I have let some time pass since my last note. Things have been picking up here, and we will be leaving the caves and mountains for swampland and then to home very shortly. The natives have, apparently, agreed to come to the Exposition. I know not what details were worked out, but it is not my place to know.

My place is here on my cot. I lie within my covers surrounded by the soft murmurs of those on night watch and the louder noises of snoring men. Above my head is cool rock. Occasionally, it is obscured by drifting smoke from the fire pit in the main cavern, but my eyes barely register either stone or vapor.

I slowly pass into dreaming of home. Dreams of you resting above me fill my head. I know you are a world away, that we are no nearer now than we have been for the weeks I have been gone. But it doesn’t matter.

All that I find that matters is my dream. Of you leaning down to kiss me and me reaching up to caress your side, to brush back your silken hair from your lovely face and let me see deep into your eyes. I love your eyes, did I ever tell you? The bold, brash, grassiness they have sparkles whenever you get excited about something.

I have always wished to see them sparkle like that about me.

It’s selfish, I know. I mean, is it not selfish for someone to want to see signs of desire for them in another? Or would that be a form of vanity? Perhaps it is pride? I do not know. All I know is how much my hips want to be next to yours.

Or how full my manhood feels in my palm just at the thought of what you might do to it with your own hand. Do not think me wanton to desire such of you. I love you and love knows few, if any, boundaries. What do I care for behaving properly when it comes to making love to you?

There, I said it.

I don’t just love you, Clair. I want to love you. To put our bodies together in as many ways and positions as we can think of. I want to feel myself deep within you, and to fill you with my seed. To taste of your juices and feel them running along my skin…both down my thighs as well as over my chin.

Yours,

David

Aug 7

Dear Clair,

We are homeward bound at last.

A curious thought comes to me at that sentence.

If bound for home, does this mean I am bound to my home? Am I tied to a given place and called back there time and again? Perhaps, I am. But, if so, it can only be to wherever you are.

And, if you will allow it, after what I wrote in my last note, I want that to be with me.

Marry me, Clair. Marry me and let us make such pleasure for each other as we might never find with anyone else in all the world.

Yours,

David