The Signtist 3
Noah rested his mind in the softness of the all-enveloping fog as he rowed along with no idea of their whereabouts. Sir Barksalot had retreated from the bow (where that strange man the signtist sat) and come back amidships to lie at Noah's feet. The signtist, meanwhile, seemed content with Noah's story and with being chauffeured wherever. His smile was broad, his eyes closed and his head tilted back as if he were basking in the warm rays of a sun that could nowhere be seen.
After a while that might have been eternity, sublimely bored with being lost, Noah dared to further the conversation.
"You said we should share. So, what's your story?"
"So," replied the signtist, not moving a muscle, "you ain't got a compass, you ain't got a phone, and your story's only one dang sentence long. You ain't got much, have you?"
"That's my sweater and tuque you got. And this is my boat that you're taking a ride in."
"Your sweater and tuque, you say? And your boat?"
"That's right. So you tell me your story now. 'Cause I don't have anything from you."
Suddenly the signtist straightened and slapped himself across the face. "Jeez, oh jeez, you're right. You're right as rhubarb. And brave too! So come on Sam, Sam Signtist, tell the boy! Only careful. One sentence he gets, just like he give you. Okay, so here it is! Sam says to you, boy, he says, 'My ship may be old, but I'm the same young son of a bitch a'drivin' her on the rocks.'"
His voice had risen as he spoke till he was shouting at the end. Sir Barksalot, objecting to that extremely, growled and bared his teeth. Noah kept rowing, because that made everything seem all right, as if being stuck with Sam Signtist and lost in a fog on the sea were all part of a dream he was having.
The clearing of the fog came abruptly as curtains being yanked back. Dead ahead was an island with a church spire thrusting up through dark red underbrush and ghostly birches.
"Ahoy!" cried Sam Signtist. "You've done it. I'm home. Bless you, boy!"
Tipping himself backward till he fell with a splash into the shallows, he turned and swam and then scrambled onto the seaweedy rocks of the shore of the island.
"It's a sign!" he cried, raising his hands. "I have not been abandoned!"
And away he fled into the underbrush, which was more than head high. Noah, backing water with the oars, felt as if he had just been awakened. Yes, his sweater and spare tuque had disappeared with the dream, but he was okay with that. He had admired Sam Signtist for being uniquely imaginative, but he had also been afraid. There was something barely tethered, some beast straining at a chain, and now it had gone home. At least it said it had.
Later he wanted to tell his aunt Minnie all about the experience, but the words fled his grasp. He wasn't sure how he got home, that island was not one he knew, and anyway that man was not one that he wanted to disturb, not particularly. Nevertheless, as a souvenir of what he felt would be a high point of his life, he cast aside all judgement and asked his aunt if she would not shave his head, because he wanted to be bald, even for just a few days, like a madman he had briefly known.
3 April 2022
Texas Jim
Lower Prospect, Nova Scotia
www.granitecoast.ca