A Second Visit

Garp stopped at the edge of the woods and tilted his chin toward Bogart.

"Take a look around nearby."

Bogart said nothing. He turned and walked along the edge of the white wax grove, soon swallowed by the shadows of the trees.

Garp straightened his collar, strode to the door, and knocked twice.

The door opened.

Mila stood inside, looking up at him.

Her hair was still tied carelessly behind her head, with a few loose strands hanging in front of her ears.

The instant she saw Garp, her brows twitched almost imperceptibly.

Garp said nothing. He simply stood there with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched forward as he looked down at Mila, the corners of his mouth pulled into a grin.

The two faced each other across the threshold for about three breaths.

Mila pulled the door open wider and stepped aside.

Garp crossed the threshold. Once inside, he did not sit down immediately. His gaze swept over the kitchen—the stove, the water vat, the wooden table, and several chairs made of white wax wood.

The window was cracked open, and the sea breeze squeezed through, carrying the bitter, clean scent of white wax leaves.

He sat at the wooden table, pulling a stool out from beneath it at random. It let out a short creak as he sat down.

Footsteps came from upstairs.

Roy came down from the second floor barefoot, stepping on the white wax stairs at an unhurried pace. He paused at the final step, then turned into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe by the staircase, arms folded.

He looked at Garp without any expression.

Garp turned his head and smiled at him.

"Morning."

Roy did not answer.

Garp turned back and continued talking to Mila—or rather, he was the only one talking.

"The white wax trees on this island grow really well. I walked here from the dock, and they lined both sides of the road. They don't grow nearly this tall anywhere else." He glanced out the window.

"I've visited plenty of islands in the East Blue, but hardly any had trees like these. The soil on your island must be good."

Mila crouched by the stove. "Mm."

"The people in town said the island got its name from these trees—White Wax Island. Straightforward and easy to remember." Garp crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee.

"Some islands have such fancy names you can't even remember them. Yours is good."

Mila pulled open the panel beneath the stove.

Garp's gaze fell there.

The space under the stove was small. It contained only neatly split white wax firewood, stacked in two orderly rows.

Mila pulled several pieces of firewood from inside and held them in her arms.

Garp saw it clearly.

There was nothing beneath the firewood, nothing behind it, and nothing in the gaps between the logs.

Barlow had taken all that stuff away yesterday. No one knew where he had taken it.

Mila pushed the panel shut with her foot, stood up, and set the firewood beside the stove.

"How long has this house been here?" Garp withdrew his gaze.

"I don't know. It was here when I was born."

"Then it's been around a long time. The wood is still this good. Your father's a fine craftsman."

Mila brushed the wood chips from her hands. "Mm."

Roy remained against the doorframe, his arms still folded. He watched the back of Garp's head, and there was still nothing in his brown eyes.

With the back of his head facing Roy, Garp exposed a section of sun-bronzed neck above his collar.

"This place reminds me of my hometown," Garp suddenly said. His tone was lighter than before. It did not sound as though he were speaking to Mila, but more as though he were talking to himself.

"Windmill Village, outside the Goa Kingdom. There were trees there too, not white wax, but palms. Palm trees were taller than white wax trees, but their wood wasn't as good. You couldn't build houses with it, and you couldn't build ships either."

He looked at the white wax tree outside the window.

"But palm trees have one advantage: coconuts. When you're thirsty, you climb up and pick one, crack it open, and eat."

Mila neatly arranged the firewood on the stove.

Garp spoke for a while, then stopped. The kitchen fell quiet, leaving only the rustle of white wax leaves outside in the wind and the sound of sawing from the distant workshop, steady and unhurried, one stroke after another.

He lowered his crossed leg and planted his foot on the floor.

"Good news. We found those pirates."

His tone was the same as when he had been talking about the white wax trees.

"Their bodies washed ashore with last night's tide. Over by the shingle beach, quite close to your house."

Roy's pupils contracted.

It happened very quickly—so quickly that no one would have noticed without staring directly into his eyes.

His arms remained folded over his chest. His fingers did not move, and his breathing did not change.

Only his pupils changed, brown turning into something darker, before returning to normal in an instant.

Garp did not turn around. He was looking at the white wax tree outside.

Mila did not change much, though her eyes widened slightly. Not the kind of widening that came with shock, but the kind that said, "I've heard something I need to look shocked about." Her brows lifted, her lips parted slightly, and her inhale was just enough to raise her shoulders a little.

"You found them?"

Her voice was slightly higher than before.

"Thank you for your hard work, sir."

Garp waved a hand.

"Oh, right. There's one more reason I came."

He uncrossed his legs and rested both hands on his knees.

"Our warship has a small problem. During last night's inspection, we found a loose joint in the bow, and one plank in the hull needs replacing. Nothing serious, but it needs repairs."

He paused.

"I heard last night that your father, Marcus, is the only shipwright on this island."

This time, Mila's expression changed as well.

Garp looked at her face and smiled.

"The workshop's out back, right? I'll go pay him a visit."

He stood up, and the stool gave another short creak as it scraped backward.

"Don't worry. The Marines won't be buying on credit."

He walked toward the door. As he passed Roy, he paused for a moment and glanced sideways at him. Roy did not move from the doorframe, his brown eyes meeting Garp's. Garp said nothing. He reached out and patted Roy on the shoulder—not hard, but hard enough to make Roy's shoulder sink an inch.

"You're a sturdy young man."

Then he walked out the door.

Sunlight fell across his broad back, making his white uniform almost blinding.

Bogart stood at the edge of the white wax grove, one hand resting on his sword hilt and the other hanging at his side. When he saw Garp emerge, he took two steps forward.

Garp walked up to him.

The two met each other's eyes for an instant.

Bogart shook his head. He had found no trace of any training.

Garp did not look back. He strode toward the workshop.

The sound of sawing came from the wooden shed ahead, one stroke after another, never stopping.

Inside the house, the two remained silent for a long time before Roy finally made a sound.

"I should've tied stones to them."

"It doesn't matter now. What's coming will come."

Mila always seemed to be the one who took things in stride the best.