Dustoff's Boat

The sun rose over the mountains, same as it did every morning. He never looked anymore. Every morning he rose like clockwork. Every morning he would drag the rough rusted flat bottom boat from its storage. Every morning he would attach it to his truck. And every morning, take it to the Lake.

His boat was not a thing of beauty. It was functional, worn, and damaged. A year ago he had almost given up on it when the bottom had fallen out. But he would not give up something he knew could be fixed. After months of solitary work the boat would float and he returned to the Lake he had abandoned years before.

The shore line was rocky, but he knew an easy way in. With no effort he would launch his boat into the waters and sit and fish until the sun rested in the West. Today would be no different. He backed into the clear water, unhooked the latch and watched as the flat bottom hit the water and waited for him to climb in.

The Lake was wide, and cold, and deep. No one had been to the bottom and no one ever would. On one side of the Lake sat the Women. Sister peaks: Satine and Rahab. The peaks were majestic. Their lush green forests called, their white capped summits shone brilliant silver. Their bases rolled and intertwined like two lovers. Satine and Rahab were spectacular examples of the beauty Mother Nature could give birth too. Their beauty belied their danger. They were hollow, empty mountains; they gave birth to and housed creatures that lived in nightmares. Only the most foolish of men would explore their peaks and no man came back unscarred. He hiked the Women before; he smiled at the memory because he could not see the damage.

What lay opposite the Women, was the Mountain. It was dominating, dark, and wild. Its peak was shrouded by storm clouds. Thick tangled woods blanketed the Mountain’s steep sides. The shore line at its base was a mass of marsh. He had always stared at the Mountain, wondering. He had heard of the great hunts that had been taken on its slopes. Of the men and women who had summited the stormy peak and returned, changed by the experience. The challenge of the Mountain taunted him. Today, like the others before it, he pointed the prow of his boat toward the more accessible Women and began to row.

Each day he rowed out onto the Lake the more he could feel the weakening of his physical strength. His pull on the oars did not take him as far as it once did. Sweat broke across his brow sooner and his breath became shorter for longer. By the time he would reach the center, he would be sweat soaked heart racing, breathing heavily. It took longer and longer for his body to adjust to the exertion.

The sun had reached its zenith by the time he had reached his spot. He looked over the side of his dilapidated boat. There was never a shortage of fish in the Lake. He would drop his line and instantly catch one. Day after day, fish after fish he would throw back, none ever being quite what he wanted. Today he cast his line and he waited. The high sun blazed off the Lake and blurred his vision. Exhaustion began to seep into his muscles. His eyes began to feel the downward pull of sleep.

A clap of thunder brought his eyes fully open and he turned toward the sound. The storm that never left the Mountain seemed darker and heavier. He wondered what type of person would dare face such a storm, it made him uncomfortable. Would he ever have the courage to face it?

He turned to check his line and there she sat on the prow of his boat. The scales of her tale shining like gold coins, skin white and pure, her long hair glittered. She looked at him with wide indecipherable eyes. Perfection, sat on the prow. “Follow me,” she said although her lips never moved. He was frozen, unable to believe what he was seeing. Was she a mirage? A dream? Her fin inches from his boot. He moved forward to touch her tail. He looked in her eyes again. She was not going to stop him. She looked at the Women, and she looked back at him, her eyes filled with desire, again he heard “Follow me.” He looked past her to the peaks and looked back at her. He licked his parched lips, dry from the sun. He wanted that. His throat burned. Her lovely face brought him to tears. Her suggestion forced him forward. He shifted forward and reached for her. A smile lit her face that sunk a cold stone in his gut. Over the prow she vanished, her golden tail taking him too into the dark cold blue.

He hit the mud, clawing up for air; he sat up with a watery gasp for breath. The prow of his rusted boat him in the head and he held on for dear life. He clung to the boat sputtering and gasping. His booted feet kicked at the mud in the shallow water of the marsh. He sat in the now murky water tightly holding the boat. How had he drifted to the marsh? The mermaid? She had been a dream. The unforgiving metal of the boat dung into his hands. He looked toward the center of the Lake. Should he go out? Should he find her once more?

He turned his gaze to the shore. A pair of legs, strong and booted to the knee were in front of him. A small pale hand extended out to him. He followed the small ordinary arm up to the face of the Hunter. There were no fish-like qualities about what stood before him. Dark hair surrounded a pale freckled face. Honest green eyes stared directly into his. He was being offered help. He had come to the Mountain. Here he would find no fish, but be forced to hunt for game. To track and try and to often fail and be disappointed. Here finding a way home would not be easy. Here he would have to give up his broken flat bottom boat.

The rust of the boat began to cut into the skin of his hands and arms. It would be so easy to go back out. There was always fish. There would always be fish. There was always the Women peaks.

He looked back at the pale hand extended toward him in friendship and the pale face patiently waiting.

“What are you hunting for?” he asked.

She grinned, “Frogs,” she replied.