Another 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 White Wax Forest, 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 casually tied behind her head, with a few loose strands hanging before her ears.

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

Garp said nothing. He simply stood there with his hands in his trouser pockets, shoulders slightly hunched forward, looking down at Mila with a wide 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. After entering, he did not sit down immediately. His gaze swept across the kitchen: the stove, water vat, wooden table, and several chairs made of white wax wood.

The window was open a crack, and the sea breeze squeezed through it, carrying the sharp, bitter scent of white wax leaves.

He sat beside the wooden table, pulling a stool out from underneath it. It let out a brief creak as he sat down.

Footsteps came from the stairs.

Roy came down from the second floor, barefoot on the white wax steps. He moved unhurriedly, paused on the last step, then turned into the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe by the stairs with his 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 speaking to Mila—or rather, he was the only one speaking.

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

"I've been to plenty of islands in East Blue, but hardly any have trees like these. Your island has good soil."

Mila crouched beside the stove. "Mm."

"The people in town said the island got its name from the 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 that you can't even remember them. Yours is good."

Mila pulled open the panel beneath the stove.

Garp's gaze fell there.

There was not much space beneath the stove. Inside were only neatly stacked split white wax logs, arranged in two orderly rows.

Mila drew out several pieces of firewood and gathered 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 those things away yesterday. No one knew where he had taken them.

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

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

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

"Then it's quite old. The lumber is still this good—your father was skilled."

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

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

Garp's back was to him, a stretch of sun-bronzed neck exposed above his collar.

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

"Foosha Village, in the outskirts of the Goa Kingdom. There were trees there too, though not white wax trees—palms. Palm trees are taller than white wax trees, but their wood isn't as good. You can't build houses with it, and you can'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 it."

Mila neatly stacked the firewood on the stove.

Garp spoke for a while, then stopped. The kitchen fell quiet, leaving only the rustling of white wax leaves in the wind outside and the sound of sawing from the distant workshop—once, then again, steady and unhurried.

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 white wax trees.

"Their bodies washed ashore in last night's tide. They're over at Gravel Beach, quite close to your house."

Roy's pupils contracted.

It was incredibly quick, so quick that one would never have noticed without staring at his eyes the whole time.

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

Only his pupils changed, turning from brown 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 showed little change, though her eyes widened slightly. Not the sort of widening born of shock, but the kind that said, "I have heard something I should appear shocked by." Her brows lifted, her lips parted slightly, and she inhaled just enough to raise her shoulders a little.

"They were found?"

Her voice was slightly higher than before.

"Thank you for your hard work, Marine sir."

Garp waved a hand.

"By the way, there's one more thing I came for."

He lowered his crossed leg and rested both hands on his knees.

"Our warship has a small problem. During last night's inspection, we found that a joint at the bow had come loose, and a board on the hull needs replacing. It's 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 is out back, right? I'll go pay him a visit."

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

"Don't worry. The Marines don't run a tab."

He headed for the door. As he passed Roy, he paused and glanced sideways at him. Roy did not move from the doorframe, meeting his gaze with brown eyes. Garp said nothing, merely reached out and patted Roy's shoulder. The force was not heavy, but Roy's shoulder sank an inch beneath it.

"You're a sturdy young man."

Then he walked out the door.

Sunlight fell across his broad back, making his white uniform painfully bright.

Bogart stood at the edge of White Wax Forest, one hand resting on his sword hilt and the other hanging at his side. When he saw Garp emerge, he stepped forward twice.

Garp walked up to him.

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

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

Garp did not look back. He started walking toward the workshop.

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

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

"I should have tied stones to them."

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

Mila seemed to be the one who always took things the most calmly.