The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [48]
With that Anthony of Padua probably could’ve caught a whole yellow boatload of fish—153 of ’em, maybe—but me, I flail around in the water, careening between clumsiness and near-injury for what must be another two sloshing hours before I catch—yes I do!—three fat rainbow trout in my beautiful holy string hammock net.
“Thank you, fish!” My words echo off the old volcano mountain. “Thank you, fish!”
I tie the net up at the edge of the water so the fish are still submerged even though they’re entrapped, and I wade into the deep—in the direction of my sunken wine. Plunge into the indigo depth. Locating the jugs is easy enough, they’re right in the sand where they fell, but when I dive down and hook two fingers through the first jug’s handle and pull, it’s like trying to lift a boulder. Bubbles from my nose. I need air. I drop the jug, somersault up, and kick back to the surface, gasping.
I tread water, getting a few good breaths, then dive in again, manage to pull the jug to shallower water before I drop it again. Third time down, and I’ve got the first jug in two hands. I drag it to the shore, set it in the grass next to my boat, which still needs patching. Back out into the blue. I’m getting used to the glacial temperature, wonder if this is how people catch pneumonia—by adjusting to zero.
Whoever thought I’d bust my ass like this for two jugs of Gallo?
Fully dressed again, I circle the island, but the closest thing to boat-patch I can find is a handful of bark and needles, some sap I manage to scrape from a pine’s shaded wound. “Thanks,” I whisper to the tree. The sap softens a little in my hand as I make my way back to my boat.
I cover the hole best I can with the sap and tree mixture. My idea is that it’ll harden in the cold water. Get us home, anyway. Strange to think of Dorothy’s one-room cabin as home, but that’s where we’re headed—me and my three fish trailing the canoe in their hammock net.
Less than halfway to my docking spot, cool water starts to seep into the wooden boat. We can’t go down here, the lake’s too deep. I could swim to the shore easily enough, but not with the wine and fish. I’m not giving up my wine and fish now.
I climb-roll out of the boat, careful not to tip it, wet jeans heavy on my body.
The dusky shore is all that matters now. My fish flap fins like they want to help push the boat for the little cabin—either that or they’ve changed their minds and want their freedom.
I roll the yellow canoe over onto the grassy turf shore, go running up to the cabin for Dorothy’s blue bucket.
“All right, trout.” I ease them from their net and into the water-filled bucket. “Listen. I’m planning to kill you, then wrap you and cook you in the fire, you got that?”
The fish chase each other’s tails, circling in their tiny plastic lake as I carry them up to the cabin.
My pine nuts and thyme are wet in my pocket, but I dump them out onto the table next to the bucket.
Outside, I gather twigs, wonder what time it’s getting to be. Days seem to last so much longer up here, sun inching across the sky. It’s not that a girl can get much done—all the hours of light consumed just trying to put together some paltry sustenance—but it feels like a lifetime since I woke, sore boned and staring incredulous at Dorothy in the doorway.
Chapter 18
TAKE AND EAT
A funny thing happened when Saint Patrick crashed a Druid’s party back in fifth-century Ireland.
“Okay, saint boy, let’s see what you’re made of,” one of the elders said under his breath as he handed the uninvited guest a cup of poisoned wine.
When Patrick raised the cup to the light, the poison rose to the surface. He blew it off, then toasted everyone in good cheer.
But that’s another story.
Dorothy’s guests arrive solo and in pairs. Dusty, long-haired Sierra hermits and hoboes in secondhand work pants take their