The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.2004, Side 37

Vol. 58 #4
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
183
Short Story
^01/ue FlshllA/
by Avery Simundson
“D’you reckon there’s any goldeye
down there?” Gary asked lazily, looking
up at Jimmy.
“Dunno,” Jimmy replied. “But if there
is, this here doohickey is sure to catch it,”
He said smiling happily, motioning to the
bright, decorated hook at the end of his
fishing pole. He wound up his rod careful-
ly, swung it over his shoulder, and then
hurled it into the sparkling stream. Gary
watched wistfully as the multicoloured
hook hung in the air for a moment, and
then fell in a graceful arc and landed with a
satisfying plop into the water. His eyes
travelled up from the hook, down the
string and came to rest on the shiny new
fishing pole resting in Jimmy’s hand. Gary
wished he had a fishing pole like that. He’d
had to make do with his bit of string tied to
a stick. There wasn’t much money for fan-
cies on his small, Saskatchewan, dustbowl
farm. Jimmy had gotten his special rod
from his uncle. Gary’s father said a stick
and a piece of string would work just as
well as any fancy rod, but so far, Jimmy
had two fish swimming in his pail, while
Gary’s pail was still as empty as it was this
morning when he’d come out.
He dug his finger into his ear and
twisted it around, trying to rid himself of
the dust that constantly manifested him. It
had been dry for a couple of years now and
there was dust everywhere and on every-
thing. He could feel it on his clothes, hear
it in his ears, taste it in his mouth. His teeth
felt like they were constantly covered with
a thin layer of the dust that plagued his
town, and many others. He wriggled his
toes is the hot sun, feeling their cracked
dryness. The soles of his feet were hard
from callus. He only owned one pair of
shoes and they were at least three sizes to
big on him. They were his brother’s old
ones and he needed to wear two pairs of
socks to make them stay on. In the sum-
mer, that was two pairs too many and he
ran across the prairies barefoot, surrender-
ing his feet to the mercy of the hot ground
he walked on.
His feet hurt from standing on the
burning rock by the stream and he eased
into a sitting position, Jimmy following
suit. He dabbled his toes in the cool stream,
liking the way it tugged gently at his feet.
Then he thought better of it, and pulled
them out quickly for fear of scaring away
the fish. He wound up his rod hopefully,
and then frowned when he saw a bare hook
on the end of his line. He sighed as he
skewered on another worm.
“They took it again,” he muttered as
Jimmy laughed at him. Gary made a swipe
at him, missed, and lost his balance in the
process, tumbling over, making Jimmy
laugh even harder. Gary grumbled as he sat
back up, muttering darkly under his breath.
He suddenly thought of something that
made him forget the embarrassing episode
and looked at his partner. “Say Jimmy,”
“Mmm?” replied Jimmy lazily, still
silently chuckling at his companion’s mis-
fortune.
“Why do you reckon fish like them
worms so much? I mean, they’re so slimy
and slippery. Why on earth would they
want to eat one?”
“Well,” Jimmy began, “have you ever
tried a worm?”
“No,” Gary said slowly, faint suspi-
cions arising in his young mind.