Cauldron Gristle by Blackmore Keith C

Author:Blackmore, Keith C.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Keith C. Blackmore
Published: 2011-06-09T00:00:00+00:00

3

Ye Olde Fishing Hole

The sun had not yet risen over the surrounding trees and hills, and the surface of the lake was flat and sinister, like a sightless eye gouged into the earth. A mist, ghostly cotton with all the time in the world, drifted over the water. Somewhere, a solitary loon cried out, spearing the stillness and giving the picture sound. Nothing moved on the water. Nothing flew in the air above it, not even insects.

Bumping and huffing its way toward the water’s edge, the four-by-four pickup earned its keep on the uneven ground with its headlights bright like the eyes of an angel of war. It was a bruised beast of a machine, scratched, dented, and in sore need of body work, but still capable of doing whatever needed being done. The driver would sooner let the beast die in a pasture than remove its face to allow replacements. Every wound on the truck was a story, every metallic dimple, a grin.

The driver took his time, knowing there was plenty of it, and that no one else would be at the edge of the lake. Not this morning. No one came here to fish anymore, no one but him… and family.

The vehicle bounced toward the waterline grunting and spitting exhaust, until at last the driver was satisfied with where he was. The truck stopped. The headlights died. Two doors opened with cranky yawns. A pair of dark figures exited the beast. One stretched and looked about at the distant hills; the other, taller figure, studied the lake. He was older, with a swimmer’s build. He lit a cigarette, inhaled smoke and lake air, and stood still, thinking.

“It’s big,” said the non-smoker.

The smoking man didn’t answer.

“Dad?” the other asked, turning in his direction.

“Hmm?”

“Want me to get the shit out?”

“Don’t swear.”

A pause. “Want me to get the stuff out?”

“Wait a minute,” the father said, and drew another puff on his smoke, the end glowing in the morning calm. He exhaled a cloud, taking in the peace of the lake. The son looked as well. It was a big lake. In the predawn light, a dark line of trees marked a distant shore perhaps two kilometers away, but its edges were hidden in deep curving coves and trees. It might have been two klicks across at its widest, but it was closer to fourteen kilometers around on foot. If one was crazy enough to walk it.

The father had no such intentions of walking anywhere, which was why he had brought the truck.

He gazed across the surface of the early morning serenity. It was a beautiful lake. Picturesque. Unspoiled. Peaceful. God above only knew how deep it was in the middle. A chill enveloped the elder Durham, and he took another comforting draw on his smoke.

“Josh,” the man said. “Get the gear down.”

Metal squealed on metal, the sound carrying across the lake’s expanse, and the boy’s father cringed from the noise. Burt Durham glared at his son, sending a message louder than his vocal chords could produce.

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