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Authors: Leif Enger
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snappers, plus my hands hurt. As I headed back to the johnboat my dream of Susannah returned and I ached with remorse and grief that I was not with her.
When Glendon strode in he had a calico bundle under his arm. He said, “Here we are then—go ahead, open her up,” and immediately set about making a driftwood fire.
The sack contained half a loaf of wheat bread, molasses, butter, a brick of castile soap in white paper, and a jar of turpentine. Two pale squash and a glossy orange also rolled out at my feet.
I said, “Someone was kind to you.”
He didn’t reply but tore off a chunk of bread and opened the tin of molasses. His demeanor was businesslike and I thought he must regret my presence, a concern that faded when he poured molasses on the bread and handed it to me. It’s a better meal than you might think. By the time we finished, the driftwood had caught into a hot low fire and Glendon set a skillet over the flames. He sliced in butter and shavings from the soap. Seeing my look he said, “Don’t fret, this ain’t dessert I’m making,” stirring until the castile melted into the butter. When the skillet smoked he moved it onto the mud and poured in a little turpentine, stirring this mess until it thickened and cooled.
“Now bring me those poor soldiers,” Glendon said, nodding at my hands. I wanted none of his reeking homebrew but what could I do? Dipping it up in his palm he spread that combustible on my weeping blisters.
“Hey,” I said. Despite being warm from the fire, its effect was cooling. I flexed my cautious fingers—a few blisters did split, but the ensuing pain was clean and a sort of icy reprieve. “Hey!”
“Yes, what about that,” he replied. He picked up the calico and tore it in strips and wound it smooth over my hands, leaving the fingertips free.
“We’ll leave now,” he said, “but look, we can fish on the way,” pulling a coil of braided line from his shirt pocket, then a folded paper containing two fishhooks.
“Wait, Glendon—there’s a turtle up the shore,” I said. “A big one. He was there an hour ago, anyway. I didn’t know how to bring him in.”
“Whereabouts?”
I motioned upriver. There was a boulder on the sand shaped like a knee and the turtle was just beyond it.
“Thank you, Becket, good spotting, a turtle would serve us well.” He stooped to his pack and found a small sheath knife and a whetting stone. Whisking the dark steel back and forth over the stone he said, “You know, I’d lost track of the years since I took a thing not mine. Even that johnboat I bought off a youngster, the shrewd little customer. But this supper of ours, that medicine, these fishhooks—I am a thief again today.”
“I’m sorry. It’s on my account.”
“No, it’s what I always was.” With a pained smile he added, “It just weighs more, this time around.”
4
How much do you know of snapping turtles? Redstart knew a lot. They might reach a hundred pounds and a hundred years old. Their beaks and their wills are adamant: Once clamped on something, such as your heel, not even death will pry them loose. Redstart’s friend Clive Hawkins once killed a snapper by removing its head with a crosscut saw, and it still walked away and made it nearly half a mile to the river before it stopped. Butchering that stubborn pilgrim they found a Chippewa arrowhead embedded in its shell—a scrawny Hawkins boy must’ve seemed like no adversary at all, at least until that saw blade appeared.
So I was impressed when Glendon staggered into our tatty camp with the snapper alive and profoundly offended. He had it upside down by the tail. The turtle bent its neck this way and that to get its bearings. I’m sure the brute weighed sixty pounds.
“I thought you were going to kill it,” I said, when he dropped the snapper on the sand by the johnboat.
“I was, but it’s hot,” he pointed out. “As soon as we kill it we have to eat it; otherwise it’ll turn.”
The turtle
When Glendon strode in he had a calico bundle under his arm. He said, “Here we are then—go ahead, open her up,” and immediately set about making a driftwood fire.
The sack contained half a loaf of wheat bread, molasses, butter, a brick of castile soap in white paper, and a jar of turpentine. Two pale squash and a glossy orange also rolled out at my feet.
I said, “Someone was kind to you.”
He didn’t reply but tore off a chunk of bread and opened the tin of molasses. His demeanor was businesslike and I thought he must regret my presence, a concern that faded when he poured molasses on the bread and handed it to me. It’s a better meal than you might think. By the time we finished, the driftwood had caught into a hot low fire and Glendon set a skillet over the flames. He sliced in butter and shavings from the soap. Seeing my look he said, “Don’t fret, this ain’t dessert I’m making,” stirring until the castile melted into the butter. When the skillet smoked he moved it onto the mud and poured in a little turpentine, stirring this mess until it thickened and cooled.
“Now bring me those poor soldiers,” Glendon said, nodding at my hands. I wanted none of his reeking homebrew but what could I do? Dipping it up in his palm he spread that combustible on my weeping blisters.
“Hey,” I said. Despite being warm from the fire, its effect was cooling. I flexed my cautious fingers—a few blisters did split, but the ensuing pain was clean and a sort of icy reprieve. “Hey!”
“Yes, what about that,” he replied. He picked up the calico and tore it in strips and wound it smooth over my hands, leaving the fingertips free.
“We’ll leave now,” he said, “but look, we can fish on the way,” pulling a coil of braided line from his shirt pocket, then a folded paper containing two fishhooks.
“Wait, Glendon—there’s a turtle up the shore,” I said. “A big one. He was there an hour ago, anyway. I didn’t know how to bring him in.”
“Whereabouts?”
I motioned upriver. There was a boulder on the sand shaped like a knee and the turtle was just beyond it.
“Thank you, Becket, good spotting, a turtle would serve us well.” He stooped to his pack and found a small sheath knife and a whetting stone. Whisking the dark steel back and forth over the stone he said, “You know, I’d lost track of the years since I took a thing not mine. Even that johnboat I bought off a youngster, the shrewd little customer. But this supper of ours, that medicine, these fishhooks—I am a thief again today.”
“I’m sorry. It’s on my account.”
“No, it’s what I always was.” With a pained smile he added, “It just weighs more, this time around.”
4
How much do you know of snapping turtles? Redstart knew a lot. They might reach a hundred pounds and a hundred years old. Their beaks and their wills are adamant: Once clamped on something, such as your heel, not even death will pry them loose. Redstart’s friend Clive Hawkins once killed a snapper by removing its head with a crosscut saw, and it still walked away and made it nearly half a mile to the river before it stopped. Butchering that stubborn pilgrim they found a Chippewa arrowhead embedded in its shell—a scrawny Hawkins boy must’ve seemed like no adversary at all, at least until that saw blade appeared.
So I was impressed when Glendon staggered into our tatty camp with the snapper alive and profoundly offended. He had it upside down by the tail. The turtle bent its neck this way and that to get its bearings. I’m sure the brute weighed sixty pounds.
“I thought you were going to kill it,” I said, when he dropped the snapper on the sand by the johnboat.
“I was, but it’s hot,” he pointed out. “As soon as we kill it we have to eat it; otherwise it’ll turn.”
The turtle
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