Sailing the Shipping Seas

A few months later, she had sent him a specific invitation to see a set of bronze sculptures recently unearthed from an archaeological site near Zigun. Chef Chen had needed little convincing to help Huan prepare an entire travel plan before approaching his father.

There was no way he’d ask his mother for permission without being completely prepared.

Interestingly, she seemed almost disappointed that he was so well thought out, giving him permission in a tone that sounded much more like her Matriarch voice than he liked to hear.

He reached into his bag and drew out the small yellow box Chen had given to him to give to his aunt. When Huan had asked about it, he got no more details than a smile and a wink could convey.

He reached up to pull the bell cord when the door silently pivoted into the apartment, revealing his aunt in a dark green tunic over black trousers.

It wasn’t until he stepped inside, removed his shoes, placed his bag on the floor, and turned to present Chen’s gift that he realized her clothes were spattered with paint in a rainbow of hues.

A quick glance was all he needed to realize this was a shirt she had used for years of painting. The red, orange, and yellow hues at her right arm were wet, but the other colors scattered haphazardly across the rest of the garment were clumped in similar groupings of related shades. None of those other colors had the shine of new paints.

“Come on in, kid. You look like you just stepped in on your parents kissing.” With a huff, Lin turned and walked over to a countertop to pick up a tray with a teapot, two cups, and a plate of morsels he couldn’t identify from across the room.

Bewildered, he clutched the long, thin box to his chest and followed her out to her balcony overlooking what must be one of the inlets rather than Yue Bay to the west. His vauge memory of the map of the city felt like the earliest impressions of his artistic impulses, the ones that often began as paintings, even if he eventually used his metalbending to create more tactile representations.

Tea on the balcony was quiet and relaxing. He decided that she was one who, like his father, didn’t need hours of conversation to drown out the silence. They were sufficiently shaded from the late afternoon sun that sitting out and watching the water traffic was almost meditative.

But, eventually, his body demanded a bit of attention. He squirmed in his chair, Chen’s box catching his eye again.

“Chen asked me to bring this to you,” he commented, sliding the box over to Lin.

The smile she gave the box intrigued him. It was gentle, unlike any expression he remembered seeing on her face. And it was almost like she wasn’t looking at the box, at all.

“I’ll have to write him a note.” She looked up, smiled again, and gave him a nod. “Thank you for bringing this. He must have just found them. He didn’t say anything in his last letter.”

She opened the box, and he was taken aback to see the selection of paintbrushes. He held his breath, examining them with a professional interest, but still too nervous to ask any of the questions he had.

He knew perfectly well he would never touch them.

His aunt replaced the lid, placed the box on the tray, and returned inside to the kitchen. He followed her lead, bringing his cup inside, not entirely sure where to put it. At home, there was always someone in the kitchen who took things away when he returned them. But surely, he shouldn’t give dirty dishes to…

“Here, let me have your cup.”

After drying her hands, Lin picked up Chen’s gift and walked away again without speaking to him.

Once again hoping he was doing what she wanted, he walked after her, pausing for a moment when she entered a room with a bank of windows letting in the last of the day’s sunshine.

The wall to his left was covered with a cacophany of paintings, each of them visibly unfinished. A figure stood against a blank canvas. A bridge hung in space over a water with no banks. Mountains hovered in a void of white. A hand, posed in what was clearly a bending position, the owner’s airbending tattoo nearly glowing in the light from the sunset.

He stepped closer, examining each in turn. Brush strokes, color choices, line weights… she was not a professional, clearly. But he was enraptured. Each was more than a sketch, less than an entire work of art.

“Why have you never finished them?” he asked before he could stop himself. He turned to look at her, but she was looking at the wall, her eyes distant and unfocused again.

“Because of why I was interrupted. This one,” she pointed at the mountains with no sky or lowlands, “was interrupted by a callout to a fire. I met a six-year-old Asami Sato that day.” She brushed her fingers against the canvas.

Above and to the left was the person, faced away from the viewer. “I was painting Tenzin when he told me he wanted out of our relationship.”

She traced the airbender’s arm.