The Preacher Has Gone Fishing Chapter 10

"THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER TEN OF TWELVE

     The Preacher had to admit to himself, that he was disappointed about the possibility, he might have been unable to go on this planned fishing trip, in the morning, if the weather continued to be a fact; the rain being heavy and the wind excessive. With good faith, all weather, sunny or inclement, warm or frigid, was a gift from the creator, to celebrate as another day of life. He could get as much emotional, spiritual benefit, just sitting out on the verandah, listening to the sound of the rain hitting the forest and the expanse of open water. It was important to just be here, and relent to saving graces of this bountiful natural paradise. Fishing or not, he will enjoy the respite, and retreat to hearthside should the cold send him indoors.

     One moment the sun was shining brightly, upon this lakeland paradise, in the early morning, and the next moment, as a trait of the old summer, it would cloud-up again, and a burst of rainfall would hit down hard at the lodge building; making it difficult to see out the window, where the Preacher was enjoying his breakfast. The rain disappointed him momentarily, because it was going to change his plans for the fishing excursion. What he would find out shortly, was that his guide wasn't thwarted by a little rain, or bluster, and the only change was to wear articles of clothing that would repel the water. In fact, he looked out the window, and between the falling rain drops down the glass, was the blurred image of the man he was thinking of, at that precise moment, walking up the path to the lodge building. Possibly the guide was coming to get him, which was the case, as it turned out. He could see the canoe lashed to the end pier, at the bottom of the hillside trail. When the guide rounded the corner, to glance in at the dining hall, the Preacher was just finishing the last dregs of coffee, and pulling back his chair to exit. The smile on his face matched the one on the guide's mug, both men obviously happy to head out onto the water, in quest of another creel full of fresh fish. The weather inconsistencies were not going to ruin the day's angling, and of this, all he could think quietly to himself, was, "It's thus, God's will! I will feed these people once more." This of course referenced the occasion the day before, when he had enough fish to share with the cook, to provide a treat for the other lodgers. He had to run up the stairs to his room, to fetch his fishing rod and creel, and of course a jacket he had brought along in his suitcase, that would be better suited to the prevailing wet weather.

      It didn't take him long to bound back down the stairs, proving somewhat, that he was still fit and agile enough, to rise to any urgent occasion, demanding an unspecified amount of physical endurance. On the final step down, he landed on something that wasn't wooden, metal, or carpeting, because this sensation of an obstacle to free passage, was accompanied by a terrible, silence shattering, high pitched screech, from somewhere to his left. When he jerked his head toward the lodge's main counter, he watched as a flash of orange went flying off, around its far corner, as if an animal lit on fire. "What was that," the Preacher asked the clerk standing behind the counter. "Was that what I stepped on," pointing at a kitten, that had just that moment jumped up on a near by window ledge, licking its tail with considerable vigor. As he was leaning against the wood frame of the stairway entrance, to look at his shoe, to see if there was any evidence left on his heel, he did see some strands of orange fur stuck on the edge of his leather sole. "Sir, it happens several times a day, that someone here steps on the tail of one of our kittens, who continually get in the way," said the clerk, while still penning through the lodge register, making notes, occasionally looking up to see what calamity was happening or about to in and around the foyer. "They take care of the mice pretty well," the clerk added. "There are a lot of critters that get into the lodge, every day, and the cats are good at ushering them back out." "I only hope I haven't injured the little fellow," he answered the clerk. "It's a lot of weight from such a substantial human to land on a poor cat's tail," he added, adjusting the empty wicker creel, and passing the fishing rod from left hand to right, to restore the mission once again, to head down to the lake to meet his fishing guide. "The kitten will be fine sir, don't you worry. If it was broken, a section of the tail will eventually just fall off, and he'll be right as rain." The Preacher wasn't too sure the clerk was right about this, but thought the fellow must have information about such a thing, or wouldn't have made such a statement. He had seen cats with short tails before, but never thought about sections falling off on their own. He looked at the kitten, on the window ledge, and offered a belated apology for not seeing his tail, on his way down the staircase. The kitten actually seemed to respond, and he thought it had actually nodded to him, possibly to acknowledge the apology. No, this couldn't be the case. He resolved that following supper, he would present this little orange cat some leftover fish, as the way to make up for the mishap's pain and suffering.

      Long out in the canoe, with his guide, the twosome had been beaten by the sudden bursts of wind and rain, some of it driven horizontal, whenever they paddled into the open, or otherwise exposed area of the lake. The rough weather had limited the catch on this day, and after several hours, traversing from bay to creek-mouth, the Preacher had only filled half of the creel. He had enjoyed the outing none the less, and had the opportunity to talk to his guide, an Irishman, not long in Canada, who seemed to enjoy his questioning about the old country, and if he missed his old home region; the landscape and villages of historic Ireland. He was able to discuss what he missed about Scotland, in the pauses in between answers, and eventually, and for reasons neither knew, the topic of conversation got around to cultural differences, and the matter of superstitions, ghosts and hobgoblins. The guide seemed most animated by the subject of banchees, he had been told about, by his grandfather, when as a child, he used to visit their countryside cottage that always looked so haunted, in the moonlight of August nights. The Preacher interjected, that he too, had been the listener to many similar tales in Scotland, where his family dwelled, near what was called a haunted moor, where spirits of the deceased were said to wander through the mists, that rolled through on cold nights in the late summer. It wasn't that he was going to admit in a belief in ghosts, but rather, to share the folklore of their former homelands, while dipping lines into the deep water of a Muskoka lake.

     Just as he was getting a substantial tug on the silken line, threading tightly into the black water, he decided to ask the guide whether he thought the lodge might have something unusual attached, in the way of a spirited entity. The guide looked rather puzzled, by the question, but was more intent, at that moment, bringing the net from under the seat, in case it was needed to land the Preacher's fish, then visible with a flash of white just beneath the surface. When the fish was successfully netted, and duly admired by the angler, the guide, in casual reply, noted that "there is no ghost that I know of, wandering in the lodge, but there are some strange things that go on out here, and along the shore, on misty days like this, that appear to me, like what those old banchees were supposed to look like, that would scare Christ off the cross." But he didn't feel there was anything to fear in the lodge building of ghosts or hobgoblins. The Preacher decided not to go any further on the enquiry, about the noises, and scuffling he had been hearing, and witnessing at nights in his room. He thought then and there, the guide was trustworthy, and wouldn't deceive him if there had been other reports, of strange occurrences, on the second floor. There had to be an explanation, better than to just deem the interference some action or reaction of the supernatural. His mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe he was having a serious bout of indigestion, and it was manifesting as delusion.

     After this, the Preacher and the guide were kept busy pulling large fish out of the lake, and within the next half hour, they had filled the creel, and part of a metal pail, kept for such eventualities, between the bow and stern of the canoe. He would once again have enough fish to share with the lodge cook, and, as he recalled of a promise made earlier in the day, share a portion with the little orange cat he had injured, unintentionally, stepping down from the last stair to the main floor, and having a bit of orange tail get in the way of his large boot. It would be a gesture of apology that would satisfy perpetrator and victim in this case.

     The twosome paddled back along the lakeshore, trolling just in case, there were one or two more fish, wishing to dedicate themselves to improving the dinner fare that evening. The Preacher was thinking out loud, when he proclaimed, "I think I will ask the church to send me back here permanently."