Masks on the Shore

Part 1: The Sea

The tired town was slowly awakening from its slumber while the fishermen had already accompanied the sun to her rising. A long day lay ahead as it was the peak of the season.

Jack was stacking large empty wooden crates, three high on the main deck of the sentimental fishing boat. He could hear the muffled yells below deck; old Alf was tampering with the choking engine. The stubborn man never called for a mechanic to restore the engine, he only applied temporary patches that he flicked his hand at, assuring that it would be fine. Then five hours later, the engine would cut out and they would have to row back with old wooden oars. Jack could almost guarantee that the day would pan out like that. It happened almost twice weekly and it had already happened once this week.

Jack began spooling some sturdy rope onto a stout stick with grooved ends and Alf emerged from the rusty hatch door, wiping his grease spoiled hands on some old floral rag.

"Engine's as good as new", he inanely informed as he stared out onto the town, still wiping his hands. He rarely looked Jack in the eye, even after working with him for seven years. Jack had without a doubt changed since then but the wizened Alf remained the same; same face, same clothes, same spirit. Never lapsing between angry or happy or sad; just eternally neutral. He was an interesting creature, but if you asked him, he would dismiss his life as no different to any other.

He then looked to the large clock that stared down on the port from a high building.

"We'll set out in five minutes", he said, "Go fetch us something. From the butchers."

"Will do", Jack replied, casting the spooled rope onto a pile of mangled nets.

He jogged up the wharf to the ancient cobblestone streets. They were heavily cracked and in dire need of repair, but that was the local charm of the town; the old streets in a modern world, still walked upon by people of ancient practices. The town was content; the farmers provided produce, the butchers yielded meat, the bakers baked bread and the fishermen supplied the fish. The town was thinly spread along the coast, only going about five blocks inland. The main concentration of the town stretched for one and a half kilometres. And then of course there were the farmers and hermits scattered and splintered further inland.

Jack walked down the spine of the town, which was comprised of well kept 19th century houses; cobblestone walls, thatched rooves and the rarity of electricity. It was particularly beautiful at night, when the lamp lighters went around with their fire sticks, the polished oil lamps then lit and set about quivering against gentle sea winds. The townspeople were in a way akin to the architecture; trapped in the past by choice. Old fishermen with salt laced beards and their many sons and daughters to numerous old women who sewed jumpers and hung out clothing by the shore.

Then there were the few that had escaped from the city to the town. A change of pace (and air quality too). You could tell who was from the city, as they never truly lost their fast pace or strident actions.

The city folk were like soldiers suffering shell shock well after a war. The town was the nurse, whispering well wishes and gentle words.

Jack found the butcher and stepped inside under the horn blares from the docks in the short distance. The butchery was well kept. For a place of such death, one could still describe it as church-like. The butcher himself was a German fellow, about 45 with rough rose cheeks and a thick brown handlebar moustache. His face was so small that his eyes squinted when he smiled. He was a good man, despite his nationality being that of the enemy. But no one talked about the war here, it wasn't a concern. Jack asked what was in stock and the butcher produced two large chunks of uncooked corned beef. He said they were a good size to fit in the pots he gave Alf last week. Jack thanked him and left back for the docks.