Me and My Aching Feet

        The Fisherman and I walked on. My feet ached like they did when he found me. When he found me, I could no longer remember if I had run away or was chased out. I was resting under a tree when he told me to follow him. I had nothing to lose. He saw me limping, picked me up, and carried me. He is a man of few words. He brought me to his home, fed me hot food, and bandaged my foot. He instructed me to rest. Early in the morning, he would return and give me more hot food, change my bandages, and tell me to wash myself, then leave and return that night. 

After a week, I offered to work to repay him. He told me to rest. 

So I did. 

 I kept asking him, and he kept telling me to rest. Once, I asked him where he went during the day. He told me to rest. The next morning, he instructed me to follow him.

So I did. 

He took me to the river. I watched him whisper to the fish.

I carried a sack with his tackle box, a net, pipes, a mallet, and supplies for lunch. I had no one forcing me to carry his equipment, but I felt obligated to repay him. I had been working for him for three months. He still let me stay in his house. He asked nothing of me, but he was not resistant to my help.

 When we arrived at the river, he instructed me to drink. After drinking the cold, earthy water, I began hammering the pipes into the ground. I helped him set up the rods. I tried my best to rig them the way he did, but mine rarely caught fish the way his did. He never once scorned me, but I realized that he relied on catching. This only put me in more debt to him.

I was looking at birds when the first fish bit. I head to the line quickly, peeling off the reel. In a burst of excitement, I grabbed the net and ran for the water. The Fisherman was holding the rod, skillfully pulling in the fish. Though he was less excited than me, I saw his eyes light up. When I netted it, he took it and chuckled to himself with pleasure. I asked him what brought him so much joy. He explained that this fish was of such a high quality that it could be sold to the mongers of the neighboring village, who would pay top dollar for a fish like this. The Fisherman said I was his lucky boy. 

And so I was given the Lucky Boy.

* * *

Time passed

The Fisherman grew old. But the Fisherman and I walk on. He had pain in his step. I told him to drink. He told me to drink with him. I bent over to drink, feeling the cold air over the stream on my face. I looked back to see The Fisherman standing, smiling. He could not bend over to drink. I scooped up some water with a leaf. I held the water before his face, letting him feel the cold, youthful air, and poured the water in his mouth. 

The Fisherman thanked me, and we walked on.

We arrived at the river. He set up the rods, his face tightening with every step, and yet he never complained. I instructed him to rest. He was reluctant. I held The Fisherman's wrinkled and complex hand and helped him sit. I removed his boots and looked at his feet. They were blistered and bled. I let him look at the river but not at his feet. I carried him home that evening. I washed him and bandaged his feet. I fed him hot food. I instructed the Fisherman to rest. The Fisherman looked at me deeply. He whispered something to the fish. He peered into my eyes for what felt like the longest time. He opened his mouth and said in his quiet, loving, and now old voice, which I had come to know so well, “Thank you, Lucky Boy.” And closed his eyes.

* * *

The Fisherman and I walked on. I held two sacks, one in each hand, and a lantern loosely around my index finger. The Fisherman carried two more sacks and a canteen on his shoulder. We moved too quickly to be tired. 

Earlier that night, I was awoken by a rumbling. It was unlike me to wake The Fisherman. When I explained what I heard, he quickly ran to the window and peered outside. He turned around, eyes wide, and said in a still, serious voice, “We must go.” As instructed, I helped him pack many of his belongings into sacks.

 As we walked out in the cover of the darkness, I glanced back to see large metal carriages, but to my shock, no horse was pulling them. I asked him what they were. He said, “Bad people.”  I decided at that moment it was better I did not know.

As we waded through the chilled river, I glanced back to see the tree The Fisherman had found me under all those years ago. It looked mighty with the now pink sky over it. At that moment, the current and fear became too strong, and I stumbled. 

I woke up to see The Fisherman leaning over me.

He told me not to open my eyes. I felt blood pouring down my neck, thin and fast. He picked me up. I begged him to put me down. I refused to burden him anymore. The Fisherman insisted that he walked next to me. 

The more we walked, the more painful it became. It was hard to think clearly,and breathing no longer came to me easily. 

I collapsed. The Fisherman stood still. His skin lifeless. He begged me to hold on.

I disobeyed.

The Fisherman bent over and closed my eyes. He picked me up and brought me back to the river. He removed my boots and washed my feet with care and vigor. He picked me up again, and The Fisherman and I walked on.

* * *

Time passed, and so did The Fisherman.

I was no longer a boy, and to my displeasure, I was no longer Lucky. I still went fishing, but I grew old.  My back is now hunched under the weight of my equipment. Despite it all, I still went fishing every day. I went to the river and set up the rod like he taught me. I looked at the rolling hills like he did. I did not catch much anymore, and yet fish no longer excites me like they used to. 

After pulling up a relatively good fish for the first time in weeks, I peered into the rushing water. My eyes found a calm spot. I saw myself in the glassy water. I could not remember the last time I had seen myself. My face looked worn and intricate like the wool coat The Fisherman left me. My hearing aged, but my eyes were still young. 

The sun was preparing to set as I walked along the path, once unnoticeable, now eroded from decades of use. The sun was under the hills when I crossed paths with the boy.

He was pale and weak. His feet looked like mine did all those years ago. He mustered the little strength left in him and greeted me. His voice was dry. I took pity on the boy. Our eyes met at his ribs, defined from starvation.  “You are hungry,”  I said to the boy, though it was not a question. He nodded. I motioned him to follow. 

So he did.

* * *