The "Preacher's Has Gone Fishing Chapter 8

 

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

     Shortly after sunrise, each morning, a resident of the lodge, an artist, from a neighborhood of Toronto, loaded up a canoe with painting gear and bags that may have held provision for a shore lunch. He would arrive back late in the afternoon, and haul up a number of birch panels with sketches on them, and he was kind enough to show them to those inmates of the Muskoka Lodge, reclining in the wood chairs of the great verandah. The sketches were interesting depictions of the pine shoreline of Lake Rosseau, the islands protruding the August mist, and the lowlands and bogs in an around the lakeside, that seemed so primal and untouched by man. It was often the case, that the guests who saw the panels, would remark about how close the colorations were, of all the vegetation, plants, wildflowers and trees, and should he have sketched a deer, how accurate the depiction; much as if it might leap from the painting. The Preacher like to talk about art, and always enjoyed the opportunity to chat with the painter, who would often sit down on the pew-like bench beside him; and discussions of world art would take place, as a sort of post university lecture series. Each day was a different topic. The artist gave the Preacher a number of his dried panels, as painter to art admirer. 

     The Preacher had enjoyed a long, relaxing respite, lounging in a wooden chair, on the lodge verandah, feeling very good indeed, about having enjoyed such a prosperous occasion of fishing, earlier in the morning. He felt even more successful, as an angler, of old world experience, having learned to fish in Scotland, with his father and grandfather as a young man; how proud  he was to have, on this day, been able to offer fresh fish to the lodge's cook, to benefit guests at supper time. Should they wish a fish fry-up, of course. He had been lounging on the verandah for several hours, in the warm afternoon temperature, a soft August breeze, thinking about how delicious the fish would taste, when the supper hour rolled around. Lunch had been fine, but dinner would be superb. They were fine, chubby, summer-fed fish, that came from the deep, cold water of this beautiful Muskoka lake.

     As was expected, the dinner hour arrived, and he was amongst the first lodgers to make it through the entrance to the dining-room, taking what he thought of, as his private table, by the front window. When dinner was served to him, it looked glorious, and he immediately thanked God for this life sustaining provision, he was about to devour, with the lovely potatoes, and greens grown in a small garden plot behind the building. He savoured every morsel, and when he looked about him, there were many others, enjoying meals of fish and potatoes, and he felt quite good, that he was at least responsible for the main part of the meal. He paused for a moment, to look out over the lake, watching several row boats coming into the docking area of the lodge, after lengthy afternoon excursions up the lake. It was a paradise on earth, but he fell short of thinking it to be "heaven," when that could only be achieved by religious belief and unfortunate demise. He picked up a bound copy of "Muskoka, the Sportsman's Paradise," from a nearby book shelf, and began reading the introduction. "Paradise," he thought, was the perfect description, of the fine place where he was situated, at that moment, during the first full day at this Muskoka lodge.

     He was so proud of his day's haul, by fishing rod, line and hook, that he unwrapped the case in his room, and decided to give a minor cleaning to his weapon of choice; fastening the sections together, and occasionally, motioning, and wavering the rod, as if he was fly fishing on a rock-strewn babbling creek. At the same time, connecting with various pieces of furniture in his room, and getting the exposed hook, on one minor cast, stuck in the side of an upholstered chair in the corner. Upon its release, with some of the hay stuffing, being pulled onto the carpet, from the tiny tear. He would have to report the damage to the proprietor he thought, unless he could make a repair that would be seamless. The Preacher propped up several down filled pillows up against the headboard of the bed and reclined there, with the fishing rod still in his clenched hands. He slid his boots off, and allowed himself the privilege of nodding off, is such was to happen. He blew out one of the illuminated oil lamps, on the night stand, to give a little darkness to the room, as when he arrived on the mattress, it was in the early moments before sunset. The sunset was flaring on the horizon, and setting fire to the surface of the lake in a most alluring manner. The hard to close door to his room, also let in the lamp light from the corridor, and he could hear the voices of guests passing back and forth to their accommodations; some of the conversations he felt rather guilty about, because it might perceived he was then privy to intimate information.

     The Preacher, had in fact, pretty much retired to bedlam, as the deep snoring revealed to those passing by his chambers. By the clock at the end of the hallway, the chimes clearly indicated to all who were still awake, or who had been suddenly awakened, that it was midnight. The sound of the clock's chime didn't awaken the Preacher, at that moment. Instead, it was the tug at the fishing rod, that made him instinctively clasp the handle still resting in his hands. It was as if, from bed, he had a fish had taken hold of the hook, which he had covered with a cork, after having gotten it caught in the soft bottom of an old corner-chair. What was happening here, now, that something was pulling away at his line, like he had got a strike from the murky bottom of the lake? By this point, he had opened both eyes, and begun pulling back on the rod. He was shocked then, when there was resistance, and actual repetitive tugging. But of course this was a dream. He must be dreaming of being awake, because how was this happening otherwise, that he was in this fight with something quite unknown. Admittedly, he wasn't fully stirred to alertness at that moment, trying to figure out what was transpiring in the low light of his chamber.

     While hanging onto the fishing rod, for fear it would be pulled onto the floor, to get caught in the legs of chairs and table, he adjusted his position on the bed, to get more control of the situation. The rocking chair began to move, near the door, where he could see a splinter of light coming through the jam but there was not enough brightness to identify what was on the other end of the fishing line. Whatever was pulling, had no intention of giving up the fight. The Preacher got himself in position to swing his legs over the side of the mattress, to get better authority on rod and reel. When he pulled harder, it pulled just as hard back, and on two occasions, he felt his weight was winning-out in this strange contest through the center of  his room. He was slowly able to stand up, in order to get a better look at his adversary, at present, quite unknown of this world or other worldly. He arose from the bedstead, and took two small steps before stubbing his toe on the iron claw feet, of a small stool beside the night stand. The Preacher stumbled, yelled out in pain for his compromised toe, and before regaining his balance, had the fishing rod pulled free of his hand, subsequently hitting the floor, and being pulled toward the doorway. Trying to correct the situation of disadvantage, he moved toward the door himself, and noticed, in the dim light, the rod had become wedged parallel to the door, with the fishing line wrapped around the rockers of the chair, which had also been pulled to block the entrance. He knew someone was trying to steal his fishing rod. What else could it be? An entity that would try to wrench it from his own hands? A robber in a place like this!

     He got to the door, unravelled the fishing line from the rockers of the chair, which had tumbled onto its side, and rescued his prized fishing rod from the floor, and its position of compromise. He shut the door as far as it would close, obviously having been pulled open by the lodge thief, whoever that might have been. The Preacher decided to leave the matter until the next morning, when he would make a point of discussing the issue with the innkeeper at the front desk. If the perpetrator was looking for items of value, he or she would be visiting other rooms as well. It must be stopped.

     It took him hours to get back to the level of comfort and peace of mind, that he could then fall back into that beautiful slumber he had been enjoying before the incident.