I did know Uncle Shawn liked letters and writing. Although Uncle Shawn’s general store sold all sorts of things, it always carried plenty of items related to writing—feather pens, ink, fine paper, and books.
However, I never knew that Uncle Shawn used to teach before the war.
He told me a story about how, in his youth, he once taught a lord’s son at some castle.
“That boy couldn’t read, either. But he was very smart. He studied fairly well even without knowing letters, as long as I explained verbally. It happens often. It could be so.”
“It could… be so? He was smart but couldn’t read?”
I ended up asking such a rude question. Uncle Shawn did not scold me, but calmly explained.
“Hyacinth, look at this person. He’s a Wizard, right? How do you suppose he learned magic? Tell me, pretty young man. How did you learn magic?”
The pretty young man, my Wizard, opened his mouth.
“Well… there were pictures in the magic books, and formulas too, so I guessed maybe if I did this, it would work, and then it did, so….”
“See, Hyacinth. Even someone this clever might have difficulty reading letters. There are people like that in the world. And there are also people like me who know how to teach letters to them.”
At those words, Sir Arthur Gillen quickly lifted his head, his small and lovely features brightening as he looked at Uncle Shawn.
“You’re gonna teaach me?”
“Yes. I’ll teach you how to read. Of course, how to write, too.”
Aunt Marilyn, Uncle Shawn’s general store would probably go bankrupt the moment another general store opened in the western forest. He was terrible at selling things, quite unlike a real tradesman.
Yet when it came to persuading someone to study letters together, he was strangely adept. He explained with great eloquence how wonderful it was to be able to read, and beyond that, how putting my heart freely into writing could make life so much happier.
Listening to him quietly, even I was intrigued. I had already learned how to read, but I suddenly felt like learning again. Maybe you understand how I felt.
But Sir Arthur Gillen did not seem like the type who was easily swayed, as I was. He only reacted to two things. The first was “storybooks.”
“You’re saying I can freely read storybooooks?”
Uncle Shawn nodded.
“Yes, you like storybooks?”
“Mmm, I do like them, but I’m slow at reading and it makes my head ache, so I can’t read well. Someone once read them aloud to me, a long time, a long time ago.”
“That’s amazing. To do such a thing. You met a very good person.”
When Uncle Shawn said that, Sir Arthur Gillen got excited like a child and replied:
“Right? You have no idea how kind that person was. He’s gruff and nags a lot and picks on me, but when you get to know him, he genuinely cares about me? There’s no one else like him in the whole world.”
I secretly closed my eyes and listened to the hint of laughter in Sir Arthur Gillen’s voice. Before I knew it, a warm scene took shape in my mind.
Somewhere in the gray towns of Reutlingen, locked in a severe cold, sat the flower-like Sir Arthur Gillen. Next to him stood a man built like a bear, with a face like a hedgehog—rather like Leon in size, but with Uncle Shawn’s prickly features.
That man grumbled in a gruff tone, but nonetheless kept reading old storybooks aloud.
Whenever Sir Arthur Gillen said, “Again, do it again,” the man pretended to refuse, yet relented, spinning endless and entertaining tales. Until Sir Arthur Gillen, body giving way, rested his head on that bear-like young man’s shoulder, eyes drifting closed, falling asleep.
Just imagining it felt warm.
According to Sir Arthur Gillen, that bear and hedgehog-like friend was actually kind-hearted, so maybe he now missed our Sir Arthur Gillen—gentle as a bunny, delicate as a forget-me-not.
Yes, of course he missed him. At that moment, an idea struck me. While Uncle Shawn was busy dealing with customers who stormed into the general store, I hurried over to Sir Arthur Gillen and whispered, like I was hatching a plot.
“Sir Arthur, you must learn letters quickly,”
“Huh?”
“That friend of yours. Gruff, but secretly kind. Have you ever written him a letter?”
“Well, in the past, I sometimes wrote down words I knew and sent them….”
I did not understand what he meant by writing down words, so I asked, “Huh?” and he laughed.
“That’s… something we used to do. We just set up a little code between us and would do it that way.”
“That wasn’t really a sentence, was it?”
“No, I’m not good at reading, and writing something long is really tough. And that person hated that kind of thing.”
“He hates letters?”
“Yes, he doesn’t like writing letters or reading them.”
Aunt Marilyn, forgive me.
At that moment, I immediately thought of you, Aunt.
You were the one who used to tell me to keep my mouth shut and save paper rather than writing boring letters, and then you showed your disappointment as anger when I did not write to you.
Indeed, you were just like that, Aunt, much like that friend of Sir Arthur Gillen’s who must have looked like a bear and a hedgehog: you scolded us sisters, you often nagged us, you pretended to be stern, but in truth, you were always so caring, worried about my sister and me.
Knowing that side of you, I spoke with confidence.
“Just try writing. No one truly hates receiving letters.”
“Reeaally?”
“Yes, writing is hard.”
“It is haard.”
“It hurt our hands, and it was somewhat bothersome. One could hate writing letters. But no one could hate receiving them. Sir Arthur, you said that friend was a kind person, right? Then, by now, that friend must be really curious about you and worried about you.”
I spoke, thinking of you, Aunt Marilyn, how you wrote a furious letter out of worry for us sisters. Sir Arthur Gillen tilted his head.
“Would that person really be curious about me?”
“Of course. Maybe not right away, but at some point, they would feel curious and miss you. So learn letters. Send them a letter. Let them think of you whenever they read it.”
“When they read my letter, will they think of meee?”
“Yes. That is precisely why people write letters. So that we would be missed, so that they would think of us from time to time when they get bored.”
I just said the first thing that came to mind, but it must have touched a tender spot in his heart.
Sir Arthur Gillen put a faint smile on that lovely face and murmured quietly:
“Someone missing me.”
That person missing me.
That person thinking of me.
So they would miss me, so they would think of me.
So they would miss me, so they would sometimes recall me and think of me.
He repeated those words over and over, as if simply imagining such a thing made him happy. He said them in the stretched-out southern Winzerton accent, and in the formal, elegant Reutlingen tongue.
And only at the very end did he add softly, as though barely audible:
“…Would such a thing really happen?”
I was about to answer confidently that of course it would, then closed my mouth. I realized he was not asking because he wanted my reply.
His expression glowed with a sad light, like the sky near sunset. He looked full of tenderness, like a mother cat searching everywhere because she had hidden her kittens among the rocks, only to forget where she had left them. At the same time, he appeared forlorn, like those kittens waiting for that mother.
I found his face so sad, so sad and yet so beautiful, that I could not help gazing at him for a while.
Whether I watched him or not, he stayed there, lost in thought, looking off into the distance.
While Sir Arthur Gillen thought of that old friend who might or might not miss him, and while I watched him, wearing that sad yet joyous expression as he thought of that friend—time still flowed calmly between us both.
Only after a long while did Uncle Shawn finish his work and come back to us, and then the silence broke. Sir Arthur Gillen set up a plan to do reading and writing lessons with Uncle Shawn, then returned to his leaf hut by the beech tree.
After seeing him off, I went upstairs to our room. For some reason, Sister Primrose was already sprawled on the bed, and I lay down beside her. I described what I had just seen.
“When I looked at him like that, I couldn’t say a word. I felt as though any comment I made would be out of place. Even though I was right beside him, I felt as if he were there alone, without me. Do you ever feel that way, Sister?”
Sister Primrose ruffled my hair annoyingly, messing it up, then spoke.
“Hyacinth, don’t talk like such a grown-up. Grow up more slowly.”
Aunt Marilyn.
Do you think so as well?
Perhaps, as I watched him, who sparkled so brightly, I was growing into an adult, little by little.
Night was deep. You who read my letter were probably also sitting late at night, lighting the darkness with a flickering lamp.
I hoped this letter, too, was interesting enough for you to keep reading at the cost of your sleep.
Please stay well.
I would write again.
From the western forest, slowly becoming an adult,
Hyacinth Blossom
P.S. I thought of writing the next letter in tinier, more grown-up handwriting. What do you think?
Leave a Reply