cabin guy!” cried Frank. “Who do you think, moron? He was shipwrecked.”
“No,” I said. “It’s been here for ages.”
Frank nodded. “So was the guy.”
“Not for ten years!”
Frank echoed me, mockingly. “
Ten years.
Like you would know.”
“Then how long do you think?”
He crossed his arms and studied the stranded boat. Waves pounded on the beach behind us. “A year,” he said. “Maybe two.”
It seemed crazy at first, but he might have been right. One long winter of snow and storms could have made the boat look ancient.
Frank stuffed the jig into his pocket and started north again. He let the gaff swing by its hook like a walking stick. The stones rolled under our feet, and a sound like rain moved along with us, as thousands of tiny crabs scuttled into hiding places.
Around the next bend, the beach was scattered with enormous boulders. The waves made a steady roar and rattle as they broke on the beach, and a great chunk of Styrofoam tumbled back and forth. Then the shoreline turned again, and we found ourselves at the mouth of a river. It tumbled out of the forest down a stony waterfall, into a vast pool of salt water. I could see salmon fins and tails slicing through the surface, their bodies gliding like shadows underneath.
That river would become the edge of our world. There was no point in trying to go farther. To the north was only more of what we’d already seen: more rocks, more forests, more sea and mountain. But I felt happy here. A cool breeze came down from the river, smelling of forest and fish. A rainbow made an arch above the falls, and the water cascaded from ledge to ledge in curls of creamy white. Salmon flung themselves against the waterfall, trying to struggle up the river.
It didn’t seem possible that they could ever reach the top. But of course they would—or most of them would. They would fight their way right into the mountains, to the exact spot where they had been born, just to lay their eggs before they died. It was a beautiful thing to see, sad and brave at the same time.
But to Frank it meant nothing. He went straight to the pool, thrust the gaff into the water, and shaded his eyes to peer under the surface.
Through layers of color and patches of light, hundreds of fish swam around and around. There were so many that Frank could hardly miss, and in a moment he had one speared on the hook. He hauled the salmon out, a shining thing that thrashed so hard he could barely hold on. He swung it around and slammed it down on the stones. Using the gaff as a club, he hit it three times while it twisted on the ground. Blood and scales splattered on his clothes, his face and his hands. But he grinned as he held up the fish, so big that its tail nearly touched the ground. He tossed his hair aside. With sunlight mottled in the trees behind him, with the silver of the fish, it was as though the old photograph of my father had come to life. I remembered my mother smiling at the picture, and I wondered what she was doing right then. I wondered if I would ever get home to see her.
“Isn’t that a beauty?” said Frank.
I saw how he strained to hold that heavy fish. “It sure is,” I said. But I didn’t sound enthusiastic, and his smile vanished. He dropped the salmon and started fishing again. It lay stiff at his feet, already not quite so shiny, as though the glistening brightness was part of its life, its spirit. Now it just looked dead, and the scales sparkled on the rocks instead, in a smear of slime and blood.
Frank didn’t catch another. Maybe the fish were smarter. Or maybe he was trying too hard. He swished the gaff through the water, swearing whenever he missed.
In my hand the sticks leap and bounce on the drum top.
Boom, boom, boom, boom-boom.
I have kept the fog away, and I don’t mind if it stays where it is. A whole fleet of ships could be hidden inside it, plowing toward me right now. At any moment they might appear, dragging tendrils of mist from
“No,” I said. “It’s been here for ages.”
Frank nodded. “So was the guy.”
“Not for ten years!”
Frank echoed me, mockingly. “
Ten years.
Like you would know.”
“Then how long do you think?”
He crossed his arms and studied the stranded boat. Waves pounded on the beach behind us. “A year,” he said. “Maybe two.”
It seemed crazy at first, but he might have been right. One long winter of snow and storms could have made the boat look ancient.
Frank stuffed the jig into his pocket and started north again. He let the gaff swing by its hook like a walking stick. The stones rolled under our feet, and a sound like rain moved along with us, as thousands of tiny crabs scuttled into hiding places.
Around the next bend, the beach was scattered with enormous boulders. The waves made a steady roar and rattle as they broke on the beach, and a great chunk of Styrofoam tumbled back and forth. Then the shoreline turned again, and we found ourselves at the mouth of a river. It tumbled out of the forest down a stony waterfall, into a vast pool of salt water. I could see salmon fins and tails slicing through the surface, their bodies gliding like shadows underneath.
That river would become the edge of our world. There was no point in trying to go farther. To the north was only more of what we’d already seen: more rocks, more forests, more sea and mountain. But I felt happy here. A cool breeze came down from the river, smelling of forest and fish. A rainbow made an arch above the falls, and the water cascaded from ledge to ledge in curls of creamy white. Salmon flung themselves against the waterfall, trying to struggle up the river.
It didn’t seem possible that they could ever reach the top. But of course they would—or most of them would. They would fight their way right into the mountains, to the exact spot where they had been born, just to lay their eggs before they died. It was a beautiful thing to see, sad and brave at the same time.
But to Frank it meant nothing. He went straight to the pool, thrust the gaff into the water, and shaded his eyes to peer under the surface.
Through layers of color and patches of light, hundreds of fish swam around and around. There were so many that Frank could hardly miss, and in a moment he had one speared on the hook. He hauled the salmon out, a shining thing that thrashed so hard he could barely hold on. He swung it around and slammed it down on the stones. Using the gaff as a club, he hit it three times while it twisted on the ground. Blood and scales splattered on his clothes, his face and his hands. But he grinned as he held up the fish, so big that its tail nearly touched the ground. He tossed his hair aside. With sunlight mottled in the trees behind him, with the silver of the fish, it was as though the old photograph of my father had come to life. I remembered my mother smiling at the picture, and I wondered what she was doing right then. I wondered if I would ever get home to see her.
“Isn’t that a beauty?” said Frank.
I saw how he strained to hold that heavy fish. “It sure is,” I said. But I didn’t sound enthusiastic, and his smile vanished. He dropped the salmon and started fishing again. It lay stiff at his feet, already not quite so shiny, as though the glistening brightness was part of its life, its spirit. Now it just looked dead, and the scales sparkled on the rocks instead, in a smear of slime and blood.
Frank didn’t catch another. Maybe the fish were smarter. Or maybe he was trying too hard. He swished the gaff through the water, swearing whenever he missed.
In my hand the sticks leap and bounce on the drum top.
Boom, boom, boom, boom-boom.
I have kept the fog away, and I don’t mind if it stays where it is. A whole fleet of ships could be hidden inside it, plowing toward me right now. At any moment they might appear, dragging tendrils of mist from
Similar Books
