Read Online The Long-Shining Waters by Danielle Sosin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Danielle Sosin
Ads: Link
which element he is part of.
When the lake bottom drops away, there’s only the dark reflection of his head. He rests his feet on the enormous coil of rope. It holds the smell of deep water.
Gunnar appears to not notice whether they’re in forty feet of water, or three hundred. But of course he’s aware; he’s completely alert. John follows his gaze up to the ridge, where rounded cloud shadows darken patches of land. It’s admirable, how the oars seem to elongate Gunnar’s arms, and the boat becomes an extension of his torso. The man becomes more water strider than human.
“You best not put your feet there,” Gunnar warns, looking up at the ridge again.
John takes his feet off the coil of rope. “What’s up there?” he finally asks.
“Weather,” says Gunnar, noting John’s discomfort. “Only keeping watch,” he adds. John’s used to Gunnar watching the sky, it’s just that he seems more vigilant than usual. John shades his eyes and scans the horizon, but reading the sky from so far out in the water is not the same as reading it on land.
“I was hunting last fall when that big storm hit. It felt like the waves could’ve snatched me from the woods.”
“Yeah. That was a big force, for sure. It came bearing down from there,” he points with his oar. “But the thing with northeasters is I can see them coming. And even if they blow up faster than I can row, at least they blow me in. It’s more likely north-westers this time of year.” Gunnar tilts his head toward the ridge. “They give me no notice and blow me out. I could row for hours, giving all of my arms, and not make a bit of headway toward shore.”
“Has it happened?”
Gunnar nods and then shrugs.
John listens to the rhythmic work of the oars and waits for him to tell the story.
“I tied myself to the boat. Tied the boat to the nets.” He rows without saying anything more.
John watches the water drip from Gunnar’s oars. He turns back toward the landscape and the places he knows well, but the animal paths and needle beds, the rivers, ravines, and outcroppings of stone, have all been reduced to vague patches of color. They’re far enough out to see the wide, bare notches along the ridge, where the loggers have begun to clear the trees.
“It wasn’t too bad,” Gunnar starts up, “six, maybe seven hours bailing. No real damage, except to the fish. I couldn’t get back out to my nets again before the fish went soft.”
“Another storm?”
“Yah, no. I needed some tending. I froze myself right to the boat.”
Berit has the fish house warmed up, the barrel stove keeping off the chill that seems to come every year with the thaw, finding its way though the smallest of holes, even the tiny openings in the weave of her sweater. She leans forward in her chair, dips a cedar float in linseed, and then, with a piece of a dress beyond wearing, rubs the oil into the wood. It’s a strong smell, slightly rancid, and it mixes with the other smells of the fish house—trailings, preserving salt, sweat, wet wool, and the dense watery smell of the nets in the loft.
She rubs the oil vigorously into the float, repeating to herself once again that it would be good for Gunnar to have a partner. Not only could they work more nets, they could run hook lines for trout in the spring. And, of course, he would be that much safer. She certainly doesn’t see a problem with that.
“We barely have enough as it is,” he’d said. “Where would he live? Your work would double.” He’d shot back words before giving her ideas time.
“He could live in the net loft until he builds his own place.” She had thought it through. Her idea was feasible.
Berit sets the float on the drying rack and dips another into the oil, the light cedar wood turning darker on contact.
“Where would we store the nets?”
“Build a temporary shed.”
The exchange felt more like a children’s game than a real conversation. And then Gunnar stopped talking all
When the lake bottom drops away, there’s only the dark reflection of his head. He rests his feet on the enormous coil of rope. It holds the smell of deep water.
Gunnar appears to not notice whether they’re in forty feet of water, or three hundred. But of course he’s aware; he’s completely alert. John follows his gaze up to the ridge, where rounded cloud shadows darken patches of land. It’s admirable, how the oars seem to elongate Gunnar’s arms, and the boat becomes an extension of his torso. The man becomes more water strider than human.
“You best not put your feet there,” Gunnar warns, looking up at the ridge again.
John takes his feet off the coil of rope. “What’s up there?” he finally asks.
“Weather,” says Gunnar, noting John’s discomfort. “Only keeping watch,” he adds. John’s used to Gunnar watching the sky, it’s just that he seems more vigilant than usual. John shades his eyes and scans the horizon, but reading the sky from so far out in the water is not the same as reading it on land.
“I was hunting last fall when that big storm hit. It felt like the waves could’ve snatched me from the woods.”
“Yeah. That was a big force, for sure. It came bearing down from there,” he points with his oar. “But the thing with northeasters is I can see them coming. And even if they blow up faster than I can row, at least they blow me in. It’s more likely north-westers this time of year.” Gunnar tilts his head toward the ridge. “They give me no notice and blow me out. I could row for hours, giving all of my arms, and not make a bit of headway toward shore.”
“Has it happened?”
Gunnar nods and then shrugs.
John listens to the rhythmic work of the oars and waits for him to tell the story.
“I tied myself to the boat. Tied the boat to the nets.” He rows without saying anything more.
John watches the water drip from Gunnar’s oars. He turns back toward the landscape and the places he knows well, but the animal paths and needle beds, the rivers, ravines, and outcroppings of stone, have all been reduced to vague patches of color. They’re far enough out to see the wide, bare notches along the ridge, where the loggers have begun to clear the trees.
“It wasn’t too bad,” Gunnar starts up, “six, maybe seven hours bailing. No real damage, except to the fish. I couldn’t get back out to my nets again before the fish went soft.”
“Another storm?”
“Yah, no. I needed some tending. I froze myself right to the boat.”
Berit has the fish house warmed up, the barrel stove keeping off the chill that seems to come every year with the thaw, finding its way though the smallest of holes, even the tiny openings in the weave of her sweater. She leans forward in her chair, dips a cedar float in linseed, and then, with a piece of a dress beyond wearing, rubs the oil into the wood. It’s a strong smell, slightly rancid, and it mixes with the other smells of the fish house—trailings, preserving salt, sweat, wet wool, and the dense watery smell of the nets in the loft.
She rubs the oil vigorously into the float, repeating to herself once again that it would be good for Gunnar to have a partner. Not only could they work more nets, they could run hook lines for trout in the spring. And, of course, he would be that much safer. She certainly doesn’t see a problem with that.
“We barely have enough as it is,” he’d said. “Where would he live? Your work would double.” He’d shot back words before giving her ideas time.
“He could live in the net loft until he builds his own place.” She had thought it through. Her idea was feasible.
Berit sets the float on the drying rack and dips another into the oil, the light cedar wood turning darker on contact.
“Where would we store the nets?”
“Build a temporary shed.”
The exchange felt more like a children’s game than a real conversation. And then Gunnar stopped talking all
Similar Books
