A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.23: Hellos and Goodbyes

Old Man Hemingway had been sick for several days now. Jackson cursed the sturgeon he'd reeled in, blaming it on a curse instead of trying to accept the age of the old man.

"Please, just try to swallow some, Old Man Hemingway," the boy nearly begged, holding up a spoon of stew to the old man's chapped and sickly lips. He was more gaunt than ever, papery white skin hanging off of his bones.

"No, my boy. Do not worry. Just go to the meadow and fetch some basil for me, it will do well to fix the fever," the old man smiled weakly and patted the boy's hand. Jackson nodded and set off at once, snatching his satchel as he did. His knife had come in rather handy for not only gathering the herbs precisely, but then for slicing them perfectly.

It did not take him long to find the basil. They had just placed the rows of small plants out to grow in the sunniest area, although it was a rather early time to be planting. He cut off a few small limbs, keeping the leaves firmly, but gently, in his palm as he returned.

He walked in to find the old man dead, laying with his head upturned as if looking towards God and a soft smile upon his old lips. 'He sent me out so he could die,' the boy thought, resentment and yet a deep pity washed over him. A letter was resting atop the young boy's pile of quilts, his name scrawled in a shaky cursive on the front.

He laid the blanket over the old man's face before opening the letter.

'Jackson,

It is my regret to leave you here. The sickness washed over me so quickly I hadn't any time to make proper arrangements. I believe you may be correct, perhaps that sturgeon was carrying a curse. I have enclosed a few dollars here for wherever you may go next. I suggest you return to your guitar and follow your good soul wherever that may lead you.

I have already spoken to Amos and he agreed to bring you back to Turtle's after my, shall we say, demise. Although not untimely, rather unexpected I must admit.

Do not forget what it is like to reel in weeds when hoping for a fish. Do not forget how to row through a storm. And do not forget that you did it all on your own.

You were the best apprentice I ever had and I fear that writing will never be able to capture everything so instead I will say this: You are every mariner's best dream. Give Jack my hellos and goodbyes.

Captain Henry Charles Taylor'

The boy folded the letter again, tucking it into the envelope which he put numbly into his satchel. He had no words to say and no tears to spill. Old Man Hemingway – Captain Taylor – was gone and all he could do was move forward. And so he did.

He knocked on the door of Amos's hut. Amos answered with a grim face and said nothing, not even commenting on the boy's dim eyes.

The drive to Turtle's was solemn. Jackson stared out the window and did not speak at all. Amos did not try to make conversation either.

The boy got out of the truck and gave a half hearted wave to Amos.

"He loved you like a granddaddy would," Amos called, raising his hand in farewell as he drove away. The boy stood on the curb for some time before he turned to the small pub. He could not go in; he did not want to see where Old Man Hemingway – Captain Taylor – had once sat laughing and smiling with a tankard of ale.

Instead, he headed the way Jack had brought him, walking until his feet grew sore from his still-too-big boots but even then he kept going. He could not bear to stop this time, he would let the sorrow break in and he had no time for that right now. The sun was high noon and he knew he had at least a nine mile walk before him.