A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.26: Throwing Knife Pt. 2

In the morning, the boy retrieved his belongings but still did not set up his camp. He could not lighten the great weight within his body and the days became a week, and then two. When he finally felt as though he could move, his watch read that it was June 25th.

He had barely made a dent in the jerky. Between his scarce meal and the pieces he had given to Bast, he still had enough to last him at least one more month if he was smart.

Sighing, he emerged from his temporary camp. It was a warm, sunny day. He stretched himself, enjoying the sunlight he'd been avoiding for so long. Bast followed him as he retrieved his satchel and began to walk. He knew where he was going and what he would do.

"Bast, I must let go. I must do as I did before and forget about my past life," he told the cat as they walked. She did not respond. "But perhaps this time it is different. Perhaps this time I must hold onto what I can and forget about what I cannot. I will remember the shower and I will remember Jack's hospitality. I will forget about his woodshop in ruins. It will be repaired in my memory and I will not know that it is derelict any longer," he said decisively.

"I will remember Old Man Hemingway's – Captain Taylor's – smile and his voice of sunshine and storm clouds and spring. I will remember my first catch, which although I was hoping for a fish, was just a tangle of weeds," he continued. He recited each good memory to her, at last coming to the times he wanted to forget. "I will forget how weak and small he looked in that bed. I will forget ever going out to retrieve basil. He is still on the sea, perhaps he has even sailed across Superior with his pub buckos and found the wide sea he was hoping for," the boy chuckled despite himself.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, although Jackson was much brighter. He knew now, that he had rowed through this storm too.

At last, he reached the place he had wanted to. The Grove stage was before him, and beside it, a large oak tree with a sturdy trunk. He searched through his satchel, retrieving his throwing knife. The smell of basil was still heavy on it but he did not think of Old Man Hemingway as he smelled it. Not anymore.

He readied up to throw his knife, checking and adjusting his feet many times before he wound his arm up just as if he were about to throw a baseball. He released his arm, promptly missing the large trunk before him. The knife spun awkwardly in the air and fell dully in the mud.

He picked it up, wiping the blade of the mud with his jeans since he had left his flannel given the warm summer weather, and wound up to throw again. He readjusted himself, trying a different angle. It was the same result and, smiling with determination, he prepared to fight his next big fish.