The Boat Of Iago The morning air was cold, and damp from the days of rain. Silence could not escape through red and orange trees that fortified the hamlet of St. Peter, Quebec from the November wind. St. Peter is much like a Kansas town I thought. A small group of buildings quilted together, and called a town. Nearest point of civilization was more the two hours away. The only difference was the river. I remembered thinking you could take every so called Kansas river at piece them into the St. Lawrence. Thinking was almost a hobby to me, and the weather of cloud and cold created a perfect time to think. I thought of many things from history to wondering why we celebrated American Thanksgiving at his father�s parent�s house in another country. If only American bosses knew there was a Canadian Thanksgiving maybe we could come during a warmer time of the season. However most adults do not always think, and thus I�m left walking along the riverbank in November and not October. When I was a kid this place seemed as dull as any town from my home state. The only thing that wore away the doldrums was the riverbank. After each storm something interesting found its way to the riverbank. Most times I found nothing, and other times I found a few shells, and bottles with letters still inside. Mother told me to read the letters for the sakes of privacy, but my cousin Trenton and I broke the rule and read them anyway. As I grew older the fun of treasure hunting turned to a time to think. Walking along the riverbank became an exit from the world to a place of my own. A writers dream if there was any. At that strange age of fifthteen, my family was again on our annual Thanksgiving escapade, and I took to my usual walk along the bank. To get to the path down the cliff to the bank one must pass the house of Alistair Jefferson. His house was made of white painted wood, red shutters, and a brick chimney painted in bright yellow. Trenton warned me of the man who lived in the house. He stated the old man set out in the rain with no coat, and occasionally throwing rocks at the stray cats in the town. With Trenton�s advice I hated to go near the place and always jogged passed the house with the yellow chimney. On that they though I met Alexandra Jefferson, Alistair�s granddaughter. She had long brunette hair, and dark blue eyes. Immediately, I my heart was crushed as if it was conquered by some army. She had just moved to Trois-Rivieres, some 30 miles away, with her mother to help care for Alistair. Alexandra�s voice was a beautiful as an angel; even the bad English that came out was nice as a Sunday breeze. From now on my walk had a stop, to meet her and in the process get to know the old man in the white house. Alistair Jefferson was a widower, and veteran of Normandy. He was all but 5�7�, bald, and wore a frameless pair of reading glasses. Alistair turned out to be a great story teller. He told stories about anything from murder to historical epic, and to a homemade version of the Lord of the Rings. In this house of dust and books I dosed off and dreamt of Alistair�s created world. If only there was a way to become a part of this or that story. A story I wish I could be a part of was the one Alistair told Alexandra and I. It was a story about a King who killed a jealous family member. The King commemorated the murder by making a ring of a Dragon�s head devouring the skull of a human. Supposedly, the skull represented the murdered family member, and as any king would like; he was represented as a dragon. With both of them I found more friends then I had back home in Pittsburg. �Better friends then Trenton,� my mother always said. My mother�s comments on Trenton always went out the other ear. Since I was a child, Trenton was popular and seemed to know everything there was to life. Following him was like the disciples following Jesus; a connection towards popularity and knowledge of everything I need to know to succeed. Today, though was different, a cold silence besieged Alistair�s house. I expected Alexandra to be there at her usual time. No one answering was more of a surprise to me, since Alistair would not leave without telling someone. I thought maybe he was picked up and went into town for the day. I�ll seem him during Christmas I thought, and I can skip good byes this time. However, I felt it was not enough and I pulled out a paper and pencil from my trench coat wrote a note. �Went for walk, drop by later.� - Roosevelt �Ya know she likes me more,� Trenton said. �Canadian bitches don�t like Americans, eh.� If there was a time I wanted to fight Trenton, it was after that comment. Alexandra is no pregnant dog, I thought, she�s the only lady I know that doesn�t fall asleep during a reading of Edward Gibbon�s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Deep down in my minds I thought of a joke about his mom being the town�s �Madame of the night.� Outwardly, I said nothing, letting Trenton list 30 reasons why Alexandra does not like Americans; primarily me. I stood there silent and thought of a time my dad said if I had an Achilles heal; it was gaining enough courage to face the bullies of life. Instead I looked at Trenton as a body guard, so I never had to face that reality. �Jealous jerk, Brutus. If she�s the bitch then you must be the bastard.� I said creating one of my many Freudian slips. Before I could realize the meaning of the words I said, a sudden shock rippled along my left arm. �Why in hell did you do that for?� �Let�s go, eh� Trenton answered in a calm tone. How can anyone go from hitting someone and go straight into a calm tone of voice? I thought that question over, and over as I walked down the porch. Trenton already reached the path down the cliff, and smiled as if he won some kind of competition. The path was only three feet wide and lined by trees of oak and maple. Leaves now blanketed the road until it reached the rocky bank below. I remained silent on the way down, and Trenton smoke one of the cigarettes he stole from his mother. �So what do you want to do when you graduate,� said Roosevelt. �Nothin much, eh,� Trenton said as he pulled a cigarette out and lit the tube of tobacco. Trenton turned and asked, �Want one?� �No way� �Momma�s boy� �I may be a Momma�s boy but I intend to be a healthy one.� Trenton puffed and for once in the eighteen years of his lifetime answered my original question. �I will take my mother�s car, and leave this stupid place. Nothing and nobody wants me here anyhow.� �At least you don�t have to travel to another country to see family.� Trenton stayed silent, his face showed no emotion like he gave know care towards my comment. It was now around 10:30, and for me the walk was a disaster. My left arm was still stinging from Trenton�s punch, and the calm that had always been there was gone. The only question I could think of was how a person could change moods on a dime. Just like Trenton did earlier. I now just wanted to leave and see if Alistair had returned home. But I noticed something a few yards away. The object was a small white row boat. Boats have washed on to the bank before, none were ever seaworthy. Yet this one was in perfect condition, and seemed as if someone was preparing to leave. I just only wished he knew whose boat it was, so he could ask for a ride. Nobody was around except for Trenton, and even though the find brought some excitement I was ready to go. �Where ya going Rosy,� �Going home, I guess,� �And leave a decent boat to rot, I say we take it to sea ourselves,� Trenton replied and walked to see what shape the boat was in. �So you want to row, or do I have to do all the work.� My conscience felt uneasy about taking something that did not belong to him, but he challenged; I thought I had to take the challenge. �I will row your lazy ass from here to Timbuktu.� I got in and took the oars as Trenton pushed the boat into the water then jumped in. The river was calm and the clouds stood eerily still as we rowed out towards a small island out not far from the river bank. As I turned to see the land behind me the cliff appeared to come out of the St. Lawrence itself. The calm that was bestowed upon me reminded me of Rat and Mole rowing along his river in my favorite children story. But rowing along the St. Lawrence, I took as an honor and a chance to show Trenton I had some talent. �So Rosy, think any sea creatures exist in this stupid river,� Trenton blurted out. What a stupid question I thought. Doesn�t Trenton have anything better to do? He has friends, I�m sure they could find something better to learn. �You need to stop watching television, and no I don�t think Nessy has a friend in Quebec.� Trenton finished his last cigarette, �Ah, your no fun Rosy,� he answered. �You forget about �Geezer� Jefferson down the road.� �Being eighty years old does not make you a monster,� I answered. Trenton�s tone again turned from calm to anger, �It should ya know.� I asked him why he thought that, Trenton chose not to answer. In my usual self I did not think of dragging out an answer. I remember when my Grandmother tried to pry an answer out of him for two hours, and all he said was, �who cares.� To me it was not worth the time. We were now about five yards from the island, and my arms began to fell as if they were tied down by anchors. It was time for a break, and in Trenton now found something to day. �I knew it,� said Trenton. �You couldn�t row a tenth of a mile without tiring out.� �Very funny, I�m sure Canada is proud of your strength and skill.� Finally a comeback worth saying I muttered to myself. The wind now picked up and a stench greater then any skunk found in Kansas found its way to the boat. �Ugh, what did you eat for breakfast, Rosy?� �That is not me, moron it�s coming from over there,� I replied and soon noticed something floating in the water about two yards away from the island. �It looks like a bloated beaver,� said Trenton. �Impossible,� replied Roosevelt �beavers don�t live out here.� �How ya know? You live in the prairies,� Trenton replied angrily. I now took the oars and rowed over towards the smell. Closer the boat the stench got closer sticking to the air as if glued it there. My stomach began to tighten, and closer I rowed the stronger the pain felt. Looking closer I noticed something odd, it looked like a coat, and the person wearing the coat was still wearing it. �Oh shit!� I screamed, �That is no beaver.� I gathered the strength I had gave one last row. The boat now rammed the body and it flowed along the right side of the boat. I put the oars in the boat and with my right arm a grabbed the coat. �What in hell?� said Trenton. �Dead,� was the only word I could find. The pain in my stomach was now followed by the pounding of a panicked heart. All I could think, was what should we do? �Burial� I muttered. �Dead, must burial,� I said one last time. When one is panicked proper English doesn�t exist. �Any idiot can see that,� Trenton said in a tone I found eerie: calm. Trenton showed no panic, and only he knows what he thought of in that mouse sized brain. Ignoring Trenton though, I pulled up the body, and its face showed itself to the light. The face was pale, as a ghost in a bad Stephen King movie. Coloration of the eyes was of an indescribable darkness. But I looked closer; he looked familiar, as if I should know him. Then I saw his left hand and there was a ring. �It can�t be,� I repeated over and over. �Alistair dead,� my heart now sunk as a heavy weight inside. My left arm moved to the body, and pulled. �Trenton, help!� I said, �The body is too heavy.� �Why?� �Just do it please, sooner we get it aboard quicker we get home.� If asking why, was not enough of a stupid question, his next comment matched in stupidity. �And let the smell get into my coat,� Trenton said in that calm tone of his. �I don�t give a shit anyway. Geezer Jefferson did not care for me, so why should I.� It is interesting how one line will take hold of a person. I just wanted to put Trenton on the pile of rocks they call an island and leave him. Deeper down I knew exactly the thing that troubled Trenton; jealousy. I reminded myself of that smile back at Alistair�s earlier in the day. The smile was out of revenge, not the joy of competition. Anger now boiled, and courage seemed there, somewhere. �Dam it, Trenton. Don�t you care? I don�t give a crap about your jealousy. But the right thing to do is take him back.� �Rights are for bastards.� He replied. �I�m happy he his dead. He had it coming.� Trenton grabbed the oar and pressed it upon the body. �His grave was supposed to be over there. She can�t find it now.� As he pushed the body, my hand slept onto Alistair�s left hand. His skin so rotten it peeled of into my palm, its slim now covered my right hand. But I did not care, as I remembered one word Trenton just said; supposed. I first calmed my voiced, then asked. �Trenton, how did you supposed his grave would be here?� �Easy, I saw the accident that evening.� �Why did you not tell anybody, man?� Trenton stood silent and his green eyes looked out at the body floating away. �I suppose I forgot. I do that about people who like you more then me.� The wind now began to pick up as if on cue. The word �forgot,� raced through my faster then light. Before replying with a quick comment, I paused to think this through. I decided it was time; Trenton and I were now separate. There could be no going back. Trenton still looking at Alistair�s body did not see it coming. Anger now reigned supreme inside me. The pain of death evaporated as quickly water disappears in the desert. I raised my right hand, covered in the skin of a great man; and hit him so hard, the shockwave made my hand immobile for a minute. The ride back was quite, Trenton remained silent for most of the time except for one thing. �It�s too bad we didn�t grab the gold ring,� said Trenton. �Yes it is a pity,� I replied, even though I did not pay close attention to what he said. �Yep, could have a great time with the money,� Trenton said in a joyous tone. I did not answer; all I could do was think about things. Such as, if it was me who saw the accident, or was out there with him; I could have saved him. But I was not there, I decided to stay inside and write a story. Then I realized Alexandra does not know of his death. Should I tell her, what would happen if I did? Would I lose her like I did Alistair? The clouds now gave way to rain, as we neared the river bank, and one last thought came to mind; If is the most mysterious word in the English language. The boat reached the river bank around 12:15. Trenton quickly left without saying a word. Instead of going home I began to search my right coat pocket, and pulled out a shell, a few rocks, and a ring with a dragon devouring a human skull. I stepped to the left side of the boat and set down. I dug a small hole and placed the ring at the bottom. Next, I took out a handkerchief and wiped the rotten skin onto the handkerchief. Then I covered up the grave, makeshift as it was, in some way a dear friend was buried in the black fields of the earth. My thoughts went to Trenton, and I thought of Othello, and how Iago dies in the end. If only I warned him about the green monster. �Trenton seemed angry,� a voice mentioned behind Trenton. I chuckled, and saw it was Alexandra. I did not know what to say, what was I suppose to do after today�s dramatic events. �He had a bad day today.� �Why are you sitting in the rain, hansom� Alexandra said. �Sit down, and I will tell you why.� Alexandra set down and snuggled beside me. �What�s the story?� I paused and thought about what I was going to do. Should I tell the story or not, that is the question. I looked out at the pile of rocks they called an island, and thought of the body that floats there. I glanced at the boat, and the grave under the rocky bank. Then I grabbed Alexandra�s hand and thought it would be ok. �The story is about life, jealousy, and a small white boat that sits on a riverbank along the mighty St. Lawrence.� The End
Copyright © 2006 Tim A Campbell |