The Boat That Carried Only Letters

Before the passenger ferries began, a red boat left the north pier with three canvas sacks beneath its bench. It carried no cargo except letters, though the boatman sometimes accepted a loaf or a newspaper if there was room.

The first island had a green box at the end of its jetty. The boatman exchanged two bundles for one. At the second, an old man waited with a thermos and handed over a postcard addressed to a house only visible on clear days.

Mist rested on the middle of the lake. The boat entered it without ceremony. Water tapped the hull, the engine kept one low note, and the four islands temporarily disappeared from one another.

At the farthest jetty, seven letters were waiting under a stone. The boatman placed them in the dry sack and turned home as the mist began to lift.

He did not know what any letter said. He preferred them that way: small sealed journeys, crossing the water while the lake was still quiet enough to hold every sound.