A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.20: First Catch

The boy slept on a small pile of quilts and did not complain, even when he awoke with sand in his teeth from being so close to the door and aching bones from lying so awkwardly. He pulled himself to his feet and started the tea, finding a few imperishable cans of food. He heated one up, waiting for Old Man Hemingway to awaken.

When the old man finally did awaken with an early morning grey filling the hut, his eyes opened to the boy sitting patiently with a book that had been read and reread many times, a steaming bowl of soup and tea waiting on the table. The old man grinned as he sat up and Jackson nearly stood to help the old man with his stiff joints but Old Man Hemingway waved him away.

"Jack was right to bring you here, my boy," Old Man Hemingway said. His voice was wistful, cloudy eye far away. "You've got a good soul, I can tell. You're a good lad with a strong spirit. Don't lose yourself, now. Remember where you came from," the old man said cryptically. The boy looked up from his book, listening intently.

"Yes sir," he nodded. Old Man Hemingway smiled at him. Jackson rather liked the old man's smile. It was easy and warm, and the crow's feet by his eyes told the boy it wasn't a rare sight.

"You're too formal, my boy. Out here we go with the waves. There's no tide to fear, but that don't mean it's easy sailing. Old Man Hemingway will do fine, I assure you," the old man said, taking a sip of his stew. Finding it the perfect temperature, he took another bite. "I must say, you are the best apprentice I've taken on in a long time," he said, sighing as he took a drink of tea.

"There were others, si- er... Old Man Hemingway?" the boy asked, bookmarking his page and making his own mug of tea. He sat on the cot and listened as the old man began to speak in that clam, alluring way.

"Yes, but none were ready. They were too cautious, or too bold. Or worse, they had no motivation. There were a few with unkind hearts," he paused. "You are excitable, eager to learn. Drinking up knowledge like you need it to live. Maybe you do. I wouldn't know," he said. He took another sip of tea. "And you have a kind soul," he added decisively. They sat in companionable silence until Old Man Hemingway found it fit to set sail.

There was an old rowboat overturned and covered by a thin tarp that the old man began to pull out. Jackson took over, flipping the heavy boat carefully so as to avoid sand getting in. He grabbed the rope at the bow, heaving it over his shoulder and with all his might he dragged it towards the water.

He turned and saw Amos struggling with his own boat. Running over, the boy was quick to begin pushing at the stern of the small boat, aiding Amos until he dropped the rope. Jackson did not wait for Amos to say anything, simply ran across to the far hut and assisted Chester. Chester gave him a thankful smile and the boy returned it, jogging back over to Old Man Hemingway.

"You will overwork yourself," he warned. The boy shook his head, smiling as he retrieved the oars from beneath the two small benches.

"That does not mean I will give up," Jackson reminded him. The old man shrugged and got into the boat. Rolling up his jeans, the boy pushed the boat into the water before getting in. He used the oars to push them the rest of the way, something he had learned from his brother Before.

Then they were off. The boy was careful with the oars, not straining himself too much so that they would still have a shot at getting back without him collapsing from exhaustion.

Finally, they got to a spot and the old man held up his hand. The boy stopped rowing, finding the anchor that had been hastily tossed in and, holding the rope carefully just as the old man had warned him as he rowed out, waited until the line was slack. He gave them a few inches of drifting and tied the rope tightly to the bow's cleat and took a fishing pole from Old Man Hemingway.

"What will we catch?" the boy asked him, already casting his line, copying the movements of the old man to send his lure far, pulling and tugging the pole in an odd rhythm as he reeled.

"Walleye, I hope," the old man laughed. The boy chuckled and as he did so he felt a tug on his line, resistance, then weight as he pulled.

"I think I got one!" he exclaimed. The old man said nothing, did not reach for the net, simply watched the boy struggle with his pole. When at last he pulled his line up, there was a thick tangle of seaweed at the end of it. His face fell.

"You did well, my boy. If that had been a fish, you'd have it netted and in the boat," the old man commended.

"But it was not a fish, Old Man Hemingway, it was weeds," the boy said sadly. The old man rested a hand on his shoulder.

"And now you know what it feels like to reel in weeds," he told him deliberately. Jackson understood and quickly untangled the weeds from his hook to cast again. He pulled up no fish that day, but as the sun rose and they rowed to a new place, he knew what it was like to pull in weeds while hoping for fish.