Krell

The waters of the sea were rough.  They broke upon the shore, cracking with a wet slap against the rugged rocks. The rocks stood like a jagged black wall in the rushing surf.  The skies were a torn grey shroud, and occasional gusts of rain churned down in long sheets. 

Del looked out from the “Bulwark”, the rock that jutted skyward over the water.  It tilted up like a leaning tower, distinguishing itself from the field of boulders on the shore.  He wore the grey soft fish leather pants and long shirt of the Dohai sea people. Yet, the rough heavy fibers of his heavy woven coat betrayed a hint of shore dweller folk in his blood.  The coat kept out the cold wind, and the dull blue material gathered in folds around his neck. It shielded him from the spray that flew in the gusts of sea wind.  He kept his hands tucked in his thick sleeves, and continued to look out across the water. 

The waves were choppy, and the clouds were heavy. The sun pushed reluctant rays through, piercing the gloom with golden spars.  The sea stretched out, primeval and rigorously untamed, like a scene from the beginning of the world.  About a half mile out, a black speck rose up and down with the waves.  Del knew it was a log, but he thought again of Rigg.

Del looked out, sighed. He stroked his beard, thought back across the years.  He remembered that winter day when it all began.

The bow shuddered with the shock of each wave, driven by the sails snapping in the wind. Their heavy wool was dark with spray as the boat drove towards the shore. 

Whenever he was out on the water, Del’s hands always felt the cold.  He hated the sharp pain that ebbed into a dull throbbing. He always seemed to bang his knuckles against the fishing spears in the bottom of the boat or against the worn wooden side.  But he liked the thrill of pursuing the schools of Krell that surged in great school below the water’s surface.  He relished feeling the wind flow over his face as he crouched in the prow, poised with the short fishing spear in one hand. The other holding the roll of cord attached to the short harpoon. He felt as if he was one with the boat, his body swayed to the rhythm of the swells just like a horseman rode his horse. He absorbed the feeling of being alive, wind tugging his hair, the sound of the bow making white foam. Then as the Krell’s scales caught the sun’s rays just below the surface, he thrust spear after spear into the gleaming silver backs racing below the water. Ribbons of red mixed with foam in the wake of the boat.  

Rigg leaned back on the tiller, shouting, “Yoo-hoo, yodelay! That’s my little brother!” He would lean hard, face soaked from the spray, his jaw set. The boat slowly swung about, trailing the long lines with flapping krell like oblong pearling dangling on a string. The wet taut lines were slippery in Del’s hands, but he gripped hard and hauled the heavy fish through the water and into the boat.

Rigg enjoyed his role as sailor, he leaned back easily, “Heave ho! Heave ho! That’s dinner tonight!” But one quick eye was on the horizon, the other on the sky.

When the boat was full of the heavy scaled bodies, and the darkness began to settle on the shoulders of the world. Rigg set the rudder towards ashore. The bow parted the drizzle that misted the air.  Rigg never seemed to mind the battle with the elements.  
Even if they only scored one or two Krell, Rigg would thrust his face into the wind, swing the rudder about so that the boat plunged forward.  His eyes danced, and he was one with the sky and water. His wild brown hair streaming behind him like a flag his voice shouting at the storm with laughter, “Look little brother, I’m alive!” he shouted. Del was usually holding on grimly to the side of the boat. If he even could, he would look up for a moment, nod, then swallow several times. All his concentration was on holding down breakfast.   

Rigg stood up, his oilskin coat flapping in the wind, two strong hands protected by fingerless leather gloves, tightly holding a line off the mast. Waves rose and fell, fell hard with a crash. The bow of the boat tilted high into the angry black clouds of the sky. Del crawled to the back of the boat, kept one cold knuckled hand on the rudder while the other reached out to steady stack of harpoons that clattered in the gunwale.

Rigg put his full weight on the line, tightened the heavy canvas sail and angling it to take full advantage of the wind. With one foot braced on the edged of the boat, the other lost in the sloshing brine two inches deep in the boat, Rigg laughed into the wind and mist. Slowly, the shore materialized, dark boulders loomed from the water, dabbed with old men’s beards from the white foam.

“Better row now, little brother!”, Rigg smiled, framed against the sky. The sail snapped, heavy with water. The slender mast creaked, and Rigg’s sharp green eyes glanced upwards, checking the thick leather lashings of the crossbeam. Dell reached into green waters gurgling in the bottom of the boat and separating the oars from the harpoons. Fitting them in canvas wrapped oarlocks, he began to row. 

Accompanied by the creak of oarlocks, the boat glided forward, assisting the sail. There was a crunch of pebbles on the bow, and Rigg leapt from his perch. Seizing the bow, he threw his weight into pulling the boat onto the shore. Dell moved stiffly. He stepped carefully over the weapons and jumped. The icy surf and foam surged around his legs, and in the darkening twilight, he and his friend tugged the craft out of the waves.

Rigg took off his skin hat, and flung the strands of his long hair back. The dark rocky beach stretched out behind him, “A good catch!”

He reached down and pulled the heavy strand of Krell from the boat and looked at, “You did well brother!”. He slung them over his shoulder. Dell grunted and placed the oars in the boat. Rigg chuckled and patted his shoulder, “A bowl of barley soup will set you right.”

He nodded, and grunted as he hefted the load on his shoulder, “The old man will be happy.”

Dell gathered the harpoons from the seawater sloshing in the bottom of the boat. He grabbed the wooden shafts, tapped the butts of the stack against the bottom of the boat so that the blades were even. Then he pulled a thick leather sack from the oilskin and covered the sharp steel, lashing it tightly in place with a long leather strap.

Together, the two of them walked along the rocky path that wound up the steep rocky cliff. Rigg sang an old seaman song. It was slow and solemn, with a sense of satisfaction from a good catch. He placed his arm around Dell’s shoulder and gave him a friendly shake. 

Behind them, the sun was gone. A faint dull red glimmer made the clouds glow. The waves roared below, and white phosphorescent foam gleamed on the edge of each wave. The two young men turned at the summit, looking out over the restless sea and its constant roar. 

Rigg’s face was thoughtful, “The pain of cold water, the teeth of the wind…”

His voice trailed off, and his eyes softened. 

They contemplated the view for another moment, and he glanced at Dell, teeth flashing, “And at the end of day, I still love her.”

Dell shook his head, “I would love a cup of warm red vineyard. Stay if you like to whisper poetry to your mistress, but I’m up to the house where its warm.” t

He trudged up the path, carefully avoiding the puddles of water.  

Rigg smiled, swung away from the edge of the cliff, and followed him into the forest.