The Signtist 2
"Where shall I row to?" Noah said.
The signtist's initial answer was lost, as he made it while pulling on the sweater Noah lent him, which muffled his voice. Also he was laughing, which made him even harder to understand.
"That's good wool," he said when his bald head with its dripping bandanna was clear. "I can tell because it sure does tickle."
"That's because you don't have no shirt between you and it," said Noah.
"Well, no doubt I'll be thankful for it," said the signtist. "Now, why ain't you goin' where I told you to go?"
"'Cause I couldn't hear what you said."
"Excuses, excuses. Well, I don't repeat myself, so pay attention." So saying, he lifted a finger toward the sky, then lowered it to point out the way.
"But that's where the fog's rollin' in."
"No lad, that's where God's giant eraser is taking us back to what's fresh and what's pure."
"We'll get lost."
"We can't get lost. We got a signtist on board. Which is me. Now observe." He whipped the sweater right back off again, taking the bandanna with it, then pulled a marker from his pocket and drew a big X on his chest. "There!" he said.
"There what?" said Noah.
"There's the X that marks the spot. Got it? So now we know where we are and we can get back underway." And then the sweater went back on and the bandanna too.
Noah rowed. As they rounded the point and headed into the thickening fog, he felt strangely lightheaded. His objections were vanishing along with the land. Soon his only reference points were his companions in the dory, Sir Barksalot and the signtist, and the rippling the blades of the oars made in the water. All else was a dense luminous whiteness.
"You're a trusting fellow," said the signtist. "I don't suppose you have a cap to go along with the sweater. This bandanna's wet and my poor head is cold."
Noah fished a wool tuque out of his everything bag and handed it over. "There's people said my granddad was crazy," he said thoughtfully. "But they was wrong. He never let me down. So, do you want to hear my story now?"
"I'd be dee-lighted," the signtist cackled.
There was no wind and no way of telling where the sun was. The fog was too thick. And because it was calm there was no ringing from the bell buoy that marked the channel home. Sir Barksalot looked all around, totally mystified, and then lay down in the bow seat and put his head between his paws and shut his eyes.
"Well," Noah began, pulling strongly into nowhere, "the long and the short of my story is that everybody died."
27 March 2022
Texas Jim
Lower Prospect, Nova Scotia
www.granitecoast.ca