It was a perfect morning to be on the water.
A gentle wind soughed and sighed across the face of the lake and stirred the latticework of pine needles which covered the shore like a cross-hatched blanket. The man closed his eyes and breathed deep, savoring the scent of wilderness in the air. All around him the trees hummed with birdsong. He felt order returning to body, seeping in like warm rain through the pores of his skin, a purity of spirit which had eluded him for so very, very long.
At last the man pulled the choke on the outboard motor, then switched the lever to the “on” position. Gripping the starter rope with one bruised and calloused hand, he tugged four times in rapid succession before the crankshaft finally turned over and caught. The coughing and rumbling of the engine filled him with a sudden shock of guilt. He glanced furtively around the bank, ashamed of having introduced an unbidden mechanical intrusion into this oasis of natural splendor. But the feeling passed quickly. Soon the muted idling of the motor had settled into a rhythm which blended with the rustle of the tree branches, while further out upon the lake, all else was peaceful and still.
Yes, that’s what I needed more than anything. A little peace and quiet, he mused, casting a glance at the tarpaulin which filled the fore section of the V-hulled jon. A man is entitled to at least that much every now and then.
The sun had just barely begun to peek above the hills to the east, painting the surface of the lake with a rich, golden shimmer. The man positioned himself before the steering console, took one final look at the trees along the shoreline, then shifted the throttle forward. With a lurch, the boat began to pull away from the dock. The man smiled as he steered through the narrow channel and out into the open water. He felt the weight of the last eleven years start to slip from his shoulders, memories melting in the warmth of dawnlight, dripping down the length of his spine and over the aluminum edge of the boat to sink into the mossy green below. It was as if he and the world were waking up together from the grip of a long and troubled sleep. Each breath brought release from remembrances of the night before, of voices and fists raised in fury, the shattering of glass and bone. All forgotten now. Today there was only the water, only the wind and the sun and the solitude. The rest had already begun to fade, like the final echoes of a bad dream.
A white-bellied bird passed overhead, a kite or gull floating leisurely in the breeze. It hovered patiently above him, anticipating the appearance of a can of baitworms or small fish. The bird had learned that where there were boats, there were men—and where men went, dead things would surely follow.
After several minutes, the man turned and looked back at the sheets of green foam spreading out in opposite directions in his wake. The dock had already receded far out of sight. He was nearing the deepest part of the lake, where the waters became black and tenebrous, and no light could penetrate the murk beneath. With a grunt of satisfaction, he shifted the throttle back and idled the motor. As the boat glided to a stop, the man turned in a slow circle, scanning the horizon in every direction. Finding nothing to give him pause, he stepped purposefully toward the fore of the boat and lifted a corner of the tarpaulin.
The bird, sensing perhaps a shift in the man’s disposition, departed with a squawk of disappointment. Fifty feet below, the waters stirred as the woman, pallid and corpse-gray in the light of the morning sun, struck the surface with a heavy splash and sank beneath the curtain into depths unseen.
The man looked again to his surroundings. His eyes discovered no other human presence. His ears detected only the soft whisper of the wind and the gentle lapping of the waves. He had come, at last, into his kingdom, and as sovereign of this new domain, it was his pleasure that none should bear witness to his coronation.
Returning to the console, he throttled the engine forward once again and began to steer the boat toward a far different shore.
Justin Permenter is a writer of short stories, novels, and screenplays from Corinth, Texas. A graduate of Baylor University and the Bush School of Government & Public Service at Texas A&M, he is currently working undercover as a college admissions recruiter. He may very well be the last known defender of the adverb in the English-speaking world.
