A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.19: Beaver Bay

They walked out to Amos's truck. An old, beat up thing with rust caking most of the body. It started up with a loud cough and they piled in. It was a three seat truck and the boy had no choice but to squeeze between Chester and Old Man Hemingway. They didn't mind, both smiling kindly and laughing lightly as he settled himself between them.

They smelled of ale and the smell of open air. The boy sank towards them, their poet shirts soft from wear. Although muscular from their work, they were all rather gaunt.

It was a long drive from Turtle's Bar & Grill to Beaver Bay full of horrible country music from the crackling radio. When Amos's truck finally made it somehow, the old engine and frame creaked and groaned the whole way but by some miracle, driven by Amos's colorful sailor's tongue, they made it in one piece.

They could see the shore of a bay, a cliffside with a lighthouse overlooking all the water. Chester was out of the truck first, stumbling until the boy jumped out and caught his forearm, steadying him. Next, he helped Old Man Hemingway out with his cane. Amos was out by himself, giving a dour look to the other three. The boy smiled at him; it was met with a glare.

As they walked down a gravel path, the boy weighed down by his satchel, more of the shore came into view. There was a small woods and as if cut out of it, there were three divots in the line of trees where three small huts laid in wait. The chimneys were still and there were no lights.

The boy said nothing as they made their way down, simply acting as a crutch for the old man when he needed it. Chester, for his age, was rather spry and waited for them at the bottom. Amos was last to reach the end and he grumbled the whole way down.

Old Man Hemingway pressed a key into the boy's hand, gesturing to the middle hut. Jackson, taking off his boots to hold them haphazardly in his hand, tore off, running as fast as he could with the sand flying up behind him. He spread his arms, allowing his flannel to flap around his torso as he ran.

He made it to the hut, out of breath, and turned to see the three bony figures making their way across the sand. Unlocking the door, he walked into a small hut with a little area for cooking, just a pot hung over a chimney fire. It was all cold, the ash long gone out. A fine layer of dust had settled over everything and the boy glanced around, finding a broom and starting to sweep up the sand and dust and ash that lingered.

It was a small area and he finished before the men arrived at their huts. He looked around some more, but eventually took out a rag from his own back pocket and began to wipe the dust from the small table. He stood back, seeing that the small shelves were covered with trinkets he methodically cleaned each one. A fishing bobber, a small anchor charm, a gold coin with a pirate skull engraved.

But what really fascinated him were the books. He was looking them over as he cleaned the small trinkets, tilting his head to read the titles when the dull thud of Old Man Hemingway's can upon the wooden floor startled him.

He nearly dropped the small globe in his hand but held fast to it, placing it shakily back up on the shelf. The old man chuckled, sinking into the small, lonely chair.

"I'm sorry my boy," he chuckled. 'My boy,' Jackson smiled. "I think you'll like it here. Plenty of stories to make up. When you've got time," he winked. The boy smiled and the old man sent him out for firewood. He returned a short time later and they set the fireplace ablaze, heating up tea on top.

The hut warmed, not that it wasn't warm already, but the air thawed and eased.

"Jackson?" the old man asked. The boy looked up from his seat on the small cot.

"Yes sir?" the boy replied.

"Tell me a story," the old man leaned back in his chair and the boy started his story, speaking lowly about the adventures he had yet to go on if he ever were to return to those uneven roads.