It was a normal windy day on September 11th of 1953 when I was still on the "Good Memory", a cargo ship, not a fast one but filled with tons of goods, travelling from Southern England, and planned to arrive in Boston on the 23rd.
The trip on the Atlantic Ocean has never been so sad for me. I was born in America, while taken back to England in 1919 by my parents. After 14 years I got married and again went cross this water with my wife Aoife· She was a beauty and my Muse. However after several years when we went back to England, she didn't make it through due to diphtheria. What is more painful is the death of my little girl. She went to heaven with her dear mother in the same year.
The ocean was cold, and never ever been so sorrowful. The winds drag the water up, and roar like a lion. I planned to go inside the cabin, for it was too stupid to remain outside in the biting winds.
He was there when I met him. I could not find a proper language to describe him. But the first time when I saw him, there were no words that could work better than mysterious. He was there, sitting near the windows, nearly blended into the environment while looking me into the eyes.
"Have a seat, sir, would you?" He asked me with a cold smile, which gave me a strange feeling that he could see me through into my soul.
I opened my mouth, but my question was stuck. I sat down opposite him and started to study him. He's an English man, I can assure that. His long, high nose and his pale skin showed this information. His hair is silver white, with a little bit ginger red inside, just the same color as his old wool waistcoat. He dressed well, showing an unquestionable feeling of a noble. I estimated his age, which I felt unpleasant to ask.
"You look cold." He said softly with his silver eyes staring at me.
"Oh, yes, indeed." I quickly answered. ”Wasn't ready to face such harsh winter in the Atlantic."
"Yes, you are. And you are cold inside, too."
He handed me a cup of red tea and said some strange words.
"Here, it would probably help you feel better."
I accepted his tea and silently sat there. It took me minutes to give myself courage to talk to him and rip away my bad thoughts about the reason for his questions.
"I'm Dean, Dean Carter,a writer." I introduced myself. "And you are?"
"Cyril, the trader." He answered softly again, like a ghost.
"Owner of this ship?" I asked.
"I'm afraid not." He chuckled.
"This ship is actually my friends', and I'm just borrowing it for my own business."
"I saw those goods outside before." I said, with a bit of discomfort due to the coldness." Tea, right?"
"Yes, yes." He smiled, looking at me like I'm a kid who got a good answer. "Indeed."
We continued on this topic about trades after the war for minutes, until we were both really tired about this.
"It's 7." Cyril stood up. "Allow me, I'm too old to stay on such a cold night."
"Help yourself then."
Then it was me who stayed up till 9 that day. I was afraid. I lost Aoife and my daughter, and honestly, I was not sure whether I can go on. The idea of what I can do later and what I should do is becoming further away from me. I looked out of the windows for so long, until I was really frustrated to stay. It was just one of the nights after that heartbreaking truth.
Next morning it was sunny, and the winds made us faster, which was good news for everyone. I met Cyril again on the deck when I was trying to write something about the sea. He gently nodded at me, as I am already a good friend.
"Nice sleep?" He looked at me from above, with a taste of strange schadenfreude.
"Well, actually, no." I answered tiredly with a pause.
"What's the matter then?"
I decided not to tell the truth but explained it as a loss of creativity in my writings. Cyril looked at me curiously. I can tell he did not believe in me. While he did not break my lie. He took me to the little bar on the ship and treated me with nice tea, just like what he did yesterday. And to be honest, that was what he did everyday after.
Then on the last day before our journey's ended, I finally encouraged myself to talk about it.
"I lost my family."
I have to admit I said that coldly. I tried my best to make it sound cold and unable to change. Cyril silently looked at me, narrowed his eyes a little bit.
"I lost one of my family members, too. Just this year I have to say." After an awkward silence, he replied.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's fine."
He sighed, and started to explain. He told me that day he saw me painfully pacing around the edge of the ship, and that was why he decided to talk with me. He hoped I would say it out so that I would not give myself too much pressure. He also explained his trouble, his three grandsons, and the loss of one of them. I listened to him in great silence, until he finished his words in deep sorrow.
"I'm sorry. But I could not find a single possibility that he is still alive, that was the most sorrowful thing I have ever experienced. However I told myself, though I lost one of them, at least I have two to take care of. And life has to go on."
He got a tear down his right eye. I felt so touched and stood up.
"So, tell me now, Mr. Carter." He looked up at me. "Would you live happily after all these things happened? Would you have the courage to face your future without your beloved ones?"
"Yes, it would be sad and lonely, and even painful to step across the truth. But you will struggle to live, would you? We are both old men, and we know that there are still days to be alive. Besides, we are the ones who have courage for that, right?"
He is right. I have to admit. Though I never understood how he had that strong power to discover my secret minds, and was so gentle to help me, I did come over my scar after that. Now I got my small bookstore near the street's corner, having nice or strange people coming in everyday. I still cook my Aoife's favourite cookies, but only for strangers. When I felt better after a year, I even started my career as a private detective, hoping to help others with their messy lives.
Cyril? Well this strange, mysterious old English man never later appeared in my life. After I got down the ship, he left quickly without even looking back. I suppose he was in a hurry for a meeting or another new trip. Who knows, maybe one day I can still see him healthily standing across the street, wearing his old wool waistcoat and gently smiling at me.
The one who talked with Dean•Cart was indeed Cyril. While Dean knew nothing about him.
Cyril•Stuart, that is his full name. This British was born in west England, with together a brother and a sister.They lived in their family's house on the bank of the Wolf River for their whole childhood.
Among the three children, Cyril was the only healthy one. His sister passed away soon after her birth due to illness, and his brother Martin made himself alive until 25, but with an unhealthy skeleton body, and was later murdered by Cyril naturally near the forest at their house.
He was too weak to lead his family. That was Cyril's logic.
This logic remained in his mind even when his three grandsons got birth. They are Charlie, Warlock and Raymond. While other kids in the village got free choices, these three had to follow his order from a young age. To train them until they can do anything for the family is Cyril's only wish about them. He specifically likes Warlock due to his intelligence, while Warlock personally hates his way of education. But he could do nothing, for Cyril is the eldest member in the family and his order could be everything.
What's more, a long time being noble and rich caused the Stuarts to be proud and even arrogant. This personality shows the best in Cyril ,for he cares nothing about others. He had no interest in anything until he found the joy to see someone suffer.
He enjoys others' pain, for he can stand up high to see it, feeling strong like he is the winner of life.
The winter of 1952 was the coldest than ever before. Snow covered the west coast and also brought bad news to this family. German's war with England and the liberation of the colonies all pushed harder on Stuart's business. They have less sales and an urge to find a new customer. And what is more for bad luck, Warlock left the family and never turned back in that August.
"I'm feeling good enough about my grandfather's trick." He wrote in the letter which was later found by his maid."I'm going to America for a brighter future."
That was the time Cyril decided to go to American.
To Cyril, he was hoping this trip would be much more boring. However this idea disappeared when he saw Dean pacing near the edge of the ship.
He's suffering, Cyril knew that at his first look. And he knew if Dean kept on, he would fall into the ocean.
But that's not interesting, he thinks. At least to him, he would prefer seeing Dean's body in a cold, dark alley and see his eyes sparkle painfully at him after he tried his best to last for a longer time.
So he made a decision to help him.
Dean was suffering, and he did need someone to talk to. Maybe to him Cyril is just mysterious and gentle, while that is all his tricks. Step by step, Cyril wanted to see him feel better. For being higher, the disaster would strike harder on a person. To be nice to others has been a long-term practice for Cyril. He smiles, but always in a cold way. He asks, but actually for more information he could use. His tea to Dean is also nothing but a fake lie, to show his "friendly".
The last day of the trip when Dean told him everything, Cyril got excited and satisfied. That is what he wants. The story about Warlock's death had never happened, and Cyril's tears were just a show. But that tricked Dean enough.
When Dean got off the ship, Cyril already had a plan. He knew that someday Dean would fall. Even he got his new business near the street, or decided to be a detective.
" Those are just struggles before his death."
Cyril said softly to himself.
" I'm looking forward to your death. Mr.Cart. And I'll be the mourner of it."
