Old Man Hemingway ordered a small mug of ale for the boy, no more than a few tablespoons at the most residing on the bottom.
"When you're on shore, it's best to take advantage of the luxuries there," he said simply, passing the mug. Jackson took a sip tentatively, deciding it was acceptable, and drinking the rest in increments.
"Like showers?" the boy asked excitedly, his voice seeming small and shallow compared to the old man's. Old Man Hemingway chuckled, a rumbling noise from deep in his chest, and took a sip from his own leather and wood tankard. It was laden with beautiful designs and the boy wondered if it had been Jack's handiwork.
"Yes, lad, like showers," the old man said finally. Jackson once again admired his manner of speaking. Each word was deliberate, none wasted. All working towards one point and yet seeming so calm and easy.
"Sir, I have not read much on the sea," the boy admitted sheepishly, trying to render his own voice to match the lilt of the old man's. "I fear I will not be as good and strong as another may be," he finished ruefully, trying not to meet the old man's gaze.
"You've been listening to Old Jack too much," Old Man Hemingway smiled. "How that man loves to boast of his sailing knowledge. Nay, you'll not be dealing with much more than oars and ropes," the old man assured him. Jackson took another drink of ale.
"Will you teach me?" he asked softly. The old man smiled, grunted a laugh, and took a sip from his tankard before replying.
"Mostly," he replied. It appeared to be the end of the discussion and Jackson sat back in the booth, slipping off his boots silently to ease his blisters.
He finished his ale and stared into the bottom of the mug for some time, just admiring the different marks and grooves it held, complete with his face reflecting off of the last drop of ale in the bottom. His grey eyes held more than he knew how to explain and so he averted his eyes and instead looked out to the street. There were many people at this time of day and he studied each one.
"People move so quickly," the old man spoke suddenly, startling the boy. "Time is a luxury of being on shore," he continued, his voice faraway. "When you're out on the water, there is always something to do. Row the oars, throw the anchor, pull the traps, cast the line; work, work, work, always.
"There is something to do on the water from dawn 'till dusk. Something that'll save your hide later. If you don't row you'll never make it back to shore, if you don't throw the anchor you'll drift out too far, if you don't pull the traps you'll not have enough to sell, if you don't cast the line you'll lie in wait for traps that spring mysteriously and waste your precious time. Always something to do, always.
"On shore there is never anything of great importance to do once you've done the important things. You'll not die if you sit around on your bones. When you're on shore, when you're on land, you have all the time in the world to do anything but the important things," he finished, his cloudy eye even more cloudy it seemed. The boy sat back and thought over the old man's words, and finding he had nothing to say that would not waste words, he stayed silent and laid deep in his cogitation.
YOU ARE READING
A Trek of A Storyteller
AdventureThe second part in my trilogy of the young boy. A Tale From Before is the first, and now that our young Storyteller is freed of his captor, he has the whole world to explore. At long last, he is able to settle into a life that erases his past from h...
