Eden At The End
Johnny Vesper
a short story excerpt from the novel Eden at the End
In Autumn he went to the seashore, when the beach was empty and peaceful and no longer marred by the defilement of summertime visitors. The soft, golden sand lay unspoiled, adorned with many brilliantly white seashells which lay unaltered, resting gracefully there, exactly as the sea had left them. It filled him with something he could only imagine, was like the anticipation of a groom before his wedding day. The sea stretched out before him— breathtaking, deep, mysterious, inviting. It was only him and her now. And the dying light of dusk shone through a break in the clouds, casting shadows upon her that made her look even more beautiful, and the unknown parts of her even more alluring. Alone and undisturbed, but for the breeze, which blew her scent into his face, he laid before her on the sand and wondered— Soon, when his time came to embark into those unknown parts, would she accept him, or not?
The old salt sailors at the harbor had told him plenty of stories of rejection. And he knew the sea could be as dangerous or vengeful as any woman. He also knew that she held power, over him and all the rest, though they worked their entire lives to establish mastery over her. He accepted this as a matter of course, for the sea was no different than any of the women he had ever met. And of late, he afforded them little attention. They had all, up to now, been the dangerous or vengeful types, and he had decided to take his chances with the sea, rather than with any of them. Knowing the mastery over either was futile, but with the sea at least, the potential for endless reward was still possible. And he had not yet met a woman of which he could say the same.
Today the sea for her part was pleasant, and the gently rolling swell of her figure enticed him as always. The early evening was his favorite time to enjoy her company. There before him, a flock of pelicans flew in formation over her. Inches above her cresting waves, they traced the rise and fall, like the steady hand of a painter, gracefully brushing her outline, with oil on canvas. The moon had not risen, the sun was still setting, and the colors of the sunset ran with striking vibrancy across her face. The breeze, and the colors, and the calm water, reminded him of all that he loved about the sea.
Now Ezra Bailey knew very little in fact, about the sea. In part, he loved her for what he thought she offered. Though to truly love her, he would have needed to get to know her more deeply. But that is the thing about love. We often love most those we know least and love least those we know most. And Ezra Bailey, whether he realized it or not, had always hoped to someday love someone he knew better than anyone. For only then, would he fully understand how good love could really be.
In his defense, he was still only twenty-three. And although you are by twenty-three expected to be grown, and to know at least some things; a man at twenty-three is still too young to really know anything. A man at twenty-three, has not lived enough, felt enough, or seen enough.
What Ezra had lived through was difficult. What he felt, was restless. And what he had seen, was the wealthy men who lived in extravagant mansions along the Willamette River in Portland. So, what he thought was, that the sea afforded wealth, comfort, and freedom. All those wealthy men had achieved their riches from the sea, and he longed to do the same.
He did not know that he really loved her for more than what he simply thought she offered. He had always loved her, ever since he was a boy. She had infatuated him with her beauty, and filled him with longing, for adventure, and dreams of freedom and escape. Yet still, he did not really know her. And now, naivety had led him to believe that he only loved her for what he thought she offered— the prosperity he was so desperate to attain.
But at twenty-three, he had not yet learned— true prosperity can only be attained by getting to know someone better than anyone, and loving them most.
He lay on the sand now watching the colors of the setting sun recede from the face of the sea, as she gazed from west to east there. The orange and red glow faded, as the surface of the water shifted from light to shadow, in the waning hours of day.
Then he heard the muted sound of footsteps in the sand, approaching quickly from behind. He turned to see his friend, William Harrington, running towards him, barefoot, holding his worn and haggard looking leather boots in one hand, and his dirty, creased hat in the other. His long hair, the color of the sand, unfurled loosely behind him in the breeze. And as he neared, Ezra noticed the bluish-gray eyes of his friend now matched the color of the dusk sky, though they were warm and cheerful as always.
“Ezra! I’ve been looking all over for you!”
William said, dropping down beside him on the sand, continuing to speak, though out of breath from running.
“When you left the tavern, I thought you went to the station. But I should’ve known.” He said between breaths. “I should’ve known you would be down here, all alone. Dreaming again about sailing away in search of your treasure, I’m sure.”
And he smiled lightheartedly.
“Just, watching the sunset.” Ezra replied.
William did not answer, he was still catching his breath. Ezra spoke again.
“I don’t think I can unload one more crate of that, that treasure, Will. I’m glad we got away for a little while at least. Another cross word from the dock boss and I, I would’ve gone mad.”
He paused then, and could hear William’s heavy breathing, as he worked to slow his still rapidly beating heart. It seemed to Ezra the cadence of long inhales and shorter exhales began to somehow fall in time with the pound and swoosh of the waves breaking on the shore before them.
“Why do you think they works us like that Will?”
“I reckon, that’s what bosses are meant to do.” William answered plainly. “I reckon all bosses are like that.”
“I won’t be like that Will, when I’m the boss.”
“I reckon your crew won’t get much work done.” William replied, smiling again.
Ezra did not turn to look at his friend. He was looking out at the sea, dreaming again of the day he would become a shipping boss, or even, the captain of his own ship.
The full moon began to rise above the dunes behind them. It reminded Ezra of being a boy on his grandfather's homestead, in the former wilderness of the Willamette Valley. There the full moon would rise above the mountains, illuminating the tops of a swaying sea of wheat, shimmering in the pale white, glow.
Here it cast a familiar streak of silver atop the moving water. And as the sky darkened, but for the soft gleam of the moon, they could just make out the faint glint of lights appearing far away on the horizon.
“Ships comin in.” William said, breaking their silence.
“We should head to the train” Ezra added. “Or we won’t get back to the docks in time to unload.”
As they left the soft sand of the beach behind, they paused at the top of the dunes, sitting again briefly to lace their boots. They would need to be ready to move quickly. The last passenger train had departed hours ago, but not having enough money to pay the fare, Ezra and William had been in no hurry to catch it. Still, they needed to be back in the city by morning, to lineup with the other longshoremen, hoping a shipping agent would offer them work for the day. Now it was time to go. This was the last freight train of the evening, and it was leaving. The long journey, on the recently laid track from Seaside to Portland, would take most of the night.
Moving through the tall grasses on the backside of the dunes, they avoided the main pathways and promenades. Dim electric light seeped through the drawn curtains of the Seaside House Resort, a few hundred yards away. The many windows of the expansive hotel—built in the fashion of a coastal Italian villa—now resembled a great passenger cruise liner, floating on a calm sea. The lights in the window of the lookout perch, where guests would gaze out over the water, reminded Ezra of a pilot's cabin on the upper deck of a cruise liner.
The grand hotel was empty, shuttered for the season, the wealthy Portlanders having long since retreated to the city for winter. Seaside itself lay mostly desolate now. Shop windows boarded, storefronts vacant, and the soft gleam of the gas streetlamp’s revealing quiet, empty sidewalks.
As they neared the depot, they saw the passenger platform deserted. The steam from a waiting freight train billowed and swirled in the air, like an eerie faint cloud in the glow of the full moon. They froze suddenly as a swinging lantern appeared on the platform, out of the darkness. It was the patrolling nightwatchman. Ezra and William ducked behind a tall patch of beach rye, waiting in silence until the light of the lantern moved out of sight. The brownish-green stalks smelled a salty mineral brine, like wet rock splashed by the sea, intoxicatingly wild, though familiar.
“Come on.” William whispered. “We need to go.”
They slipped silently behind a stack of rough-hewn lumber beside the freight shed, just beyond the empty platform. The freight crew was finishing the last coupling— a flatcar piled high with recently felled, shore pine logs. One of the men whistled up to the brakeman, signaling the load was secure. More steam hissed from the stack at the head of the train, and it began to lurch slowly forward.
Ezra and William climbed atop the scabrous, sand-dusted bark of the pine logs, keeping low and out of sight. As the train rolled past the freight shed, one of the workers spotted them clinging to the timber. Ezra and William only nodded, though caught— words would have been useless over the clatter of the shaking cars and screeching wheels.
In the shadowy light of the full moon, and the flickering oil lamps hanging along the shed, the freight man studied them. He could see their worn coats, the fraying edges of their crinkled hats, and the defeated looks on their young faces. He thought of the time he and his friend had stolen horses from their neighbor's farm to make the long ride from Briar to Hillsboro. Having had their reasons, they did not think of themselves as wrong, though they knew it was not right. Years later he was fortunate to land this job with the railroad. It meant a steady income for he and his family. Though he was gone often and always greatly missed his daughter and son. He thought of them sleeping at home, and what his life would have been like if the old man along the road in Driftwood had turned them in, after seeing them on their way back to Briar to return the horses. The old man had certainly recognized them and knew they did not own any horses. He had also heard about the farmer in Briar who was missing two from three days earlier. But the old man had decided not to say anything until the following day. Then, finding out the boys had returned the horses, he decided to stay quiet about it. The freight man still did not know why that old man had not turned him in, but perhaps the old man had been thinking of his own children as well, on that night long ago.
In any case, the freight man knew what it was like, to be just getting by, and he knew what just getting by looked like. The exchanged glances said enough. These men understood one another. He gave a quick nod back to Ezra and William, tipping his cap without speaking a word. The young men replied in kind, as the train moved beyond the tenebrous platform, and into the darkness.
“Hold on tight, boys.” The freight man thought, watching them disappear into the shadows, through the swirling steam. “Best get low at the trestle, yonder, by Beaver Point,” he said aloud— to himself and to the eddying cloud of steam that lingered momentarily, dissipating slowly where the train and the young men had been.
The wind pressed hard against Ezra’s face now, as the train picked up steam. He and William gripped their hats against the gusts, bumping and swaying, the logs jostling unnervingly beneath them. Sparks flew from the smokestack up ahead. The red embers trailed through the darkness, like the breath of a dragon spewing fire into the night.
Ezra huddled in what cover he could find between the rough-hewn shore-pine logs. He tucked his bare hands tightly under the hollows of his arms, trying desperately to keep his fingers warm. The temperature was only cool, but the exposure to the swiftly moving air and the humidity of the coast, chilled him to the bone. The full moon illuminated the sky, and the sparks from the engine continued to fly. Occasionally, he or William needed to quickly snuff out a stray ember that landed firmly onto their clothing, beginning to smolder.
They had long since left the sandy grasses, and windswept, driftwood scattered dunes of the seashore behind. Now they were traversing the inland plains, dotted with small farms and homesteads. Often, the continuously falling sparks from the smokestack would land, sizzling helplessly, onto the surface of a marshy creek or pond there along the tracks. Soon they would reach Astoria.
There, the train stopped briefly to pick up a load of wooden crates filled with freshly caught seafood bound for the restaurants and saloons in Portland. Ezra and William shifted low, on the backside of the lumber, doing their best to stay hidden. But it was late now, and the workers at the depot were tired and ready to finish for the evening. Not feeling particularly vigilant or motivated to work any harder than needed, they did not bother to reinspect the timber filled flatcar just loaded and coupled at Seaside. Ezra and William remained still and went unseen. The engine began to chug, spewing its fiery, billowing breath once more.
They settled in then, uncomfortable though they were, passing through Astoria without incident, and now the train would not stop again until Portland.
The tracks began to rise slightly as they headed into the forested mountains of the Oregon Coast Range. Towering trees— Doug fir, Sitka spruce, and western hemlock— stood close and ominous, beside the line. Tall, shoulder height ferns, pressed downward by the breeze of the moving train, grew there beneath the woodland giants. The air became cooler as the elevation changed, and filled with the fragrant sent of conifer, sweet resin, and damp earth. Once, there in the distance, Ezra could see the faint glimmer of firelight flickering through the passing trees. It was he thought, from a logger's camp, where the men were preparing to work the winter cut.
Then the grade of the track began to ease, and the ruggedness of the Coast Range finally gave way to the rolling hills of the familiar Willamette Valley. The pale moonlight revealed a patchwork of fields, stout wind rows, and pastures lined with wooden and stone fences, and old stone farmhouses with dim yellow lamplight shining in their windows. Soon the sun would be rising, but already the farmers were awake in the grayness— baling hay, milking cows, or crating their final harvests of the growing season. For Ezra, it was like memories appearing there, appearing from the storehouse of his mind, and coalescing in form on the landscape around him.
Memories of his grandfather's homestead. Fields of wheat, whose green shoots, brown stalks, and golden tops created a palette from which all other colors of the valley came, save for the blue of the sky. He thought of the old steer with a slight limp, who as a calf, they rescued from a deep peat bog where he got his permanent physical defect while struggling unsuccessfully to free himself. Just a young boy, Ezra had watched his grandfather on horseback, rope and pull free the helpless calf. Ezra named the calf “Peaty,” because of the bog that had trapped him, and they became so attached there after, that his grandfather had not the heart to ever send the poor beast to slaughter. He thought of the creaking, wooden rocking chair on the stone porch of the farmhouse. Where his grandmother would sit for hours looking out in silence on the mountains in the distance, in never ending sadness.
As the train rolled through the comforting valley, Ezra’s mind filled with these memories of the past, of his family’s journey, and the great adventures, and great sacrifices, that led them here.
He and William had ridden all night atop the coarse gritty bark of the shore pine logs, through the stirring countryside between coast and valley. Sore and tired, soon they would be back to work, on the dank, clambering docks of the city.
Near fifty years earlier, his grandfather had braved the trail, inspired by a name given to this valley by those who had gone before him— “Eden at the end of the trail.” Somewhere deep inside now, Ezra was searching for his own Eden at the end. And as his mind wandered, he thought of the cost his grandfather had paid. He thought of the sea again and wondered if he would be willing to do the same. And he wondered finally, if— it would even be worth it at the end.
Johnny Vesper
Johnny Vesper is a husband, father, and writer from Pennsylvania. His love for reading began at an early age and led to a passion for writing and remarkable storytelling. As an avid outdoors enthusiast, his knowledge and deep love for nature is the foundation for much of his literary work. He describes his writing as an exploration of the intersection between humanity and the natural world.
His debut novel, Lights Upon the Earth is currently in publication, hoping for a release date by the end of summer 2026. He is currently working on his second novel. Besides his work in long form fiction, he also authors poetry and short stories. His poetry has been published by the popular Pennsylvania Bards and featured in their annual compilation of selected works. His short story series The Nate Holly Stories has gained a significant readership on Substack. He is also known for his work as a freelance outdoor writer having been featured in numerous outdoor magazines and online publications. He is an active member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America.