Abel

The blue orb usually came to talk with him every few weeks, but it had been absent now for over two months. Still, Abel kept watch as often as he could, on top of one of the larger bald hills of the headlands, from which even the city could be seen in the distance.

He did not often come out at night, because strange things would be creeping about, hunting probably, or maybe just loafing about as he did, only nocturnally. But sometimes he felt brave enough to venture out of his hut at night, and, armed with a shovel handle that he had once found washed up on the beach, he would come to the hill and sit for a few hours. Once he had seen it, miles away, slowly levitating along, following the curves of the earth, sometimes ascending onto a gently rounded peak, and then disappearing into a valley. Eventually, it had been only a pinprick of blue light in the distance and then had vanished entirely into the night.

The blue orb seemed to fear nothing, and it comforted Abel to know that at least one being could venture out freely and undaunted.

But now it was approaching midday and he was getting hungry, so, fishing pole in hand, he scrambled off of the hill, headed towards the shore. It was late spring now, and the grasses were again turning yellow, and the small, plump shrubs were again giving up their moisture and becoming scraggly. As he tramped down the slope, a small cloud of dust rose up behind him and he felt optimistic. The rains were gone, and he would no longer wake up in his shelter a soggy mass of clothes and blankets.

He descended into a small valley, where the trees and bushes grew larger and the fog tended to linger, and followed the curve of the hill towards the beach. Usually he caught flounder and trout, but he always hoped for a salmon. Sometimes, of course, he caught nothing, and would have to go forage in the bushes for berries, or even beg along the side of the road. Lately, he had been thinking about building crab traps of his own design. But of course he had no boat.

Once on the beach, he rummaged in a small sack he had tied about his waist; from it, he pulled one of the worms that he had dug up earlier. He speared it onto the hook, cast the line off into the ocean and planted the pole into the sand. Then he sank down beside it and waited. Every so often he looked up and down the beach, and then twisted around and looked inland, scanning the hills for a glimmer of blue light.

Eventually he gave up, and winding the line around his ankle, settled his back down onto the sand. Yes, it was pretty good to be a free man on a nice spring day like this. Just listening to the waves slap themselves onto the beach, and watching seals loaf about like him, and watch pelicans meander around in the sky.

He began to feel sleepy. Stretching out on the sand, he yawned and wriggled with delight in the sun. A tingling warmth came over all of his body, and then he must have dozed off.

He found himself back in his old school room in Eureka. He was sitting at a wooden desk with his books and paper and a pencil in front of him.

Their teacher, Miss O’Leary, was pointing at something on the blackboard with her long stick, but Abel was not listening. His attention was outside; he was looking at a goat, making its way through the long grass, probably having escaped from a nearby farm.

“Abel?”

He popped off of his seat with a start, embarrassed, knowing that he was not behaving correctly. In a panic he began to rearrange the papers on his desk.

“Abel, can you tell me where on this angle you will find the vertex?”

Abel peered at the angle anxiously, not understanding. But he must make an answer. So, hand shakily outstretched, he pointed to one end of the angle, hoping that would be correct. The rest of the class began to giggle. That had not been correct. Abel lowered his eyes and began to inspect the top of his desk. He heard the sound of Miss O’Leary’s shoes tapping over the floor towards him.

She rapped him once on the ear with the stick, then retreated to the blackboard. Staring at him for a moment, she said, “Will you pay attention now, Abel?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Abel said, rubbing his ear. He felt tears welling up in his eyes.

The teacher smiled. “Good. Abel, the vertex is here.” She pointed to the top pointy part of the angle. Then the stick wavered. Abel looked at her face: she was looking off into the distance, her eyes slightly upraised, as if reading some invisible book. “If you pay attention, you’ll be able to help your daddy build that chicken coop he’s been constructing at the back of your house.”

The rest of the class giggled.

Whack! The stick came down on her desk. The rest of the class was shocked into silence. What had they done wrong?

Able sat up a little, interested. The teacher nodded, smiling. “You’ll be a great help to him if you know about lines and angles. When you go home, after you’ve done your chores, I want you to offer your help to him. Will you do that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. And during recess, you will go find that goat and take him back to Mr. Hansen’s farm.”

The class erupted in laughter once more. Abel began to laugh with them. He would like that, to find the goat, coax it towards him with an apple, and then, while it was munching away, slip a collar over its neck and lead it across the fields. He knew where Hansen’s farm was. And he was good with animals.

“She was a formidable woman,” came a voice. Young Abel turned in his seat. He did not recognize the voice. It belonged to no one he knew in town, or any of his relatives either. Yet, it was familiar.

“Yes, sir?” he said. He glanced around the classroom, but no one seemed to notice. They were all bent over their desks, writing. Miss O’Leary had not noticed either, she had continued with her lesson and was drawing something else in chalk on the blackboard.

“You should construct your crab traps. I saw a few discarded pallets about two miles south of your camp, on the main road.”

“I will, sir,” Abel said. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Abel,” the voice said. “Back to your lesson.”

Obediently, Abel turned around in his seat. Taking up his pencil, he began to copy down what Miss O’Leary was drawing on the board. While he was copying, he thought with excitement of helping his father with the coop. He envisioned himself bent over a piece of wood, sketching lines on it, his tongue stuck out, a saw in his hand, while his father looked over his work, nodding with approval and pride.

Suddenly, he seemed to be drifting down in his seat. Something was pulling at his leg, pulling him towards the floor. He reached down, trying to grab ahold of whatever it was. Then he realized: It’s the line! I’ve got a bite!

Lifting himself off of his bed of sand, he unwound the line from his ankle, grabbed his fishing pole, and began to retreat up the beach, pulling his catch out of the sea. After a few dozen feet, he saw it emerge onto the beach, flopping violently in protest. He ran over to grab it. It was a flounder, and a big one too!

Happily, he grabbed his knife out of his belt, but then paused and said somberly, “Sorry, fish.” He cut off its head. Then, once it had stopped flopping, he put both pieces in his sack and began to tramp back towards his camp.

As he departed from the beach, he began to anticipate excitedly the process of making a fire, and cutting up the fish into the frying pan, maybe with a little garlic. It would be enough for the entire day, and probably tomorrow, too. But he should not get too complacent. Each day was a struggle to find food. But, somehow, the earth always in the end provided and seemed to give up its bounty. As he wound back through the hills and valleys of the headlands, he thought on profoundly.