Fenton and the fat Fish by LAZARUS (books to read fiction txt) 📖

FENTON and the
FAT FISH

by
LASZLO KUGLER
I apologise to my fellow Canadian on the east coast, and to my friends, who are from that region.
Newfoundlanders are a very colourful people, and who are able to laugh at themselves.
No Newfies were harmed in any way in this story.


The waters rush'd, the waters rose,
Wetting his naked feet;
As if his true love's words were those,
His heart with longing beat.
She sang to him, to him spake she,
His doom was fix'd, I ween;
Half drew she him, and half sank he,
And ne'er again was seen.
-The Fisherman Goethe

FENTON AND THE FAT FISH

It's colder dan a baboon’s behind in a snow storm. I tells you, if it weren't for my parka and pacs, I'd be a popcycle in juss ‘bout de count of twenty. De worse ting is, it's only de start of Octobur.

Life here on de Rock is no picnic. Yep, us Newfies got to work hard to keep livin'. Which remembers me ‘bout my old friend Fenton Snow. He settl’d hisself way out nort-east o’here - sum place call’d Saltwater Bay. If ya think dis is cold - Oowhee, you shud take a hike to his shack.

Heres in Newfoundland, if you don’t freeze to debt in de winter, you get bitten live by dem nasty blackflies in de summer.

Oh, de story? Set right down, and I'll pour you a bit of Screech. Not only will it erode yer stomack liner, but it’s better dan aunty-freeze...I ain’t funnin’ ya.

Well, ole Fenton weren't de smartest man ‘round. You know – not de sharpest tool in de deck. I kin attest to dat, but he was wily. Yep, dat his was. A good hunter an fisher he was too. Cum dis time o'year he'd be out der cuttin' wood, gettin' ready fo dat real cold. Minus fifty in de wind - on a good day. He'd be doin' sum huntin' too, fer dat same reason. De convienent store was too far way.

So, dis one day he set out on his dory to snag sum fish. Years gone by when de salmon were so pleniful, dey'd literly jump in yer boat. You 'ad t'fight dem off or else dey'd sink ya. Now, tings are diffrent, I tells ya. You cud cast all day an cum up empty handed.
Well dis certain day was a turnin' point in ole Fen's life. I ain't too sure if he was a yarnin’ me or being truth - like. Most of dem times, he's jess full o’piss ‘n wind.

So, he tells me dat after rowin' most o' de morn an afternoon, he'd cum up with less dan he start’d wit, an was ‘bout frozen to death. He swears, if he seen a polar bear, he wouldna be surpris’d.

Bout an hour 'fore de sun set, his hunger got a hold o’ him in a fierce way. Not wantin' to return empty handed, he cast his net farthur dan ever.

As he was reelin' in de line, he witness a mighty splash juss right of his boat. As quick as he cud, he cast in dat direcshion, hopin's to snag diner , an posbly sumting big 'nuff to salt an dry fo de long cold winter.

What he told me dat happen'd next, can be taken wit a grain o’salt. He can spin a yarn bettern dan any ole Nort American Indian granny.

As he was reelin's in agin, cussin's an prayin' both de same time, a voice call out to him fom behind. "What's wrong sailor? Not your day, is it? Aw, pore you."

Next, Fen got real afeard. He’d never seed anyting like dis. Maybe he taught it was a mirage - not on sand, but on water. It was a woman. A big woman dere in dat freezin’ water.

"Hey you, cumon here quick! You'll catch yerself a det of a cold," he cry’d out to her, bein’ concered ‘bout her helt.

As she swam closer, Fen notic’d she was a good 'n fass swimmer. She cud o 'bin in dose olympicks, dat's how fass she was; swimmin' ‘round an round him, makin' him dizzier dan his Saturday nights at de ‘Green Frog Bar’ when younger.

What he seed nex almos ‘ad him fall back in dat boat an lose his gear.
"Dat woman...she is bein’ swallered by a large fish," he taught to his self. "I gots to help her!"

As dat fish was pushin' her t'wards his dory, Fen lift’d his oar way o’er his head, ready to smak de bejezzes outa dat killin’ whale. Yet as soon as she got near, his ole eyes bugg’d out o’ his head.

"You is in no trouble...you is a mer-woman. Lord have mercy on me! Finally, my drinkin' days have caught up wit me!"

When his head clear’d, Fen, merely point’d, and yell'd "Get far away fom me you spawn o’de devil! What do yer want fom me? I'm a god-fearin' man!"

What's worse was dis abominashion look’d much like his ex-wife.

Forty years back, Fen met and hitch'd onto Marguerite-Kelly Thompson. He feld head o' heel over his 'lil pumkin'. Her shape was not unlike a pumkin, an she sport’d a flamin' red head o’hair. Dey was in love.

Not too long after, tings began to change. Marg, when happy, ate. When unhappy, ate e’en more. No sooner, she was no longer Fen's lil pumkin. Let's juss say - if you'd lay her on her side, she'd be juss as tall as when standin'.

Fenton begin to hear whisperins. Folk all over town was callin' her 'Large Marg'. An, in no time, callin' her dat right to her face. Not shy at all ‘bout dat. Dey had fights daily and one day Marg swear'd she wouldn't have young'ens wit him e'en if he were de last man on eart. Fenton tells me he saw de heavens open up an a host of angels sayin' 'amen'.

At home, tings wasn't great eider. Let's not say dat Fenton was henpeck’d, he'd juss did everting his wife aks'd. He was his own man - mostly when she'd be out, or out o’site.

One day, only 'bout tree years ago today, Marg pass'd on. Yep, she pass'd on...past de front door. Past de paint-peelin' front gate, an disappeared out o’site.

Ole Fen ‘ad tears in his eyes, not fom cryin', but fom laughin's real hard. He never was happier - except probably dat one late evnin', a while afore he met his future 'ball 'n chain'.

Betty, Preacher O'Malley's daughter ‘ad showed him heaven permaturly; dis afore his actual callin’. For sum odd reason, still a mystry to Fenton an de comunty, de preacher clos’d up shop, an skedaddl’d out of town ‘bout two month later. Yet, anuder mystry!

After his Marg up an left, coincidantly Bob de Postie was not seen agin eider. 'Strange.' taught Fenton. Till one day a dim lite-bulb turn'd on o'er his head. An right dat day he pack'd up an came to live up here - as fer as passible fom der, without a fordin' address. You see, he was afear'd Bob might cum to his senses one o'dese days, an slap a 'return to sender'

sticker on Marg’s fat arse, an den all his trouble wud start anew.

So dis monstrocity Marg-look-alike wit scales, was makin's fun o'Fenton. She told him dat de reason dere were no fish was cause she ate dem all, or simply ascared dem way. As she tole ‘im dis, his stomack continu’d to belli-ache. So, at dis point, wit no catch to brag ‘bout, he turned to head back home. But suddenlike a strange song shook de inside o' his mind. He tried to git rid o’ it but it persist’d. Dis was when Fen member’d de mystology of anshient sireens, who lur’d pore sailors to dere graves by singin'.

"I'm onto you, you hag fom hell. Git lost!"

Dat dint work too well. De sireen's toon got stronger, an he couldna resist it. De jagged shoreline was juss a shot gun away - real close, but Fenton wasn't able to oar. His befuddle mind was a comatos'd.

De wind pick'd up, an was cold enuff to skin ya alive.

Fenton had hisself an idee. If he cud Jess lure de ugly sea-witch wit de face like a hen's arsehole in de nort-east winds, maybe he cud let de evenin's strong undercurnt suck her down an away. But she sung harder dan ever. As I said afore, Ole Fen was one knife short of a dozen, but he had ‘noder plan. As quick as can, he pull'd out two gerkin-sized tinga-ma-gigs fon each o’ his ear. Gerkins bein' stunted cukes, you knows. Dese were tings de Doc in town gave him to hear better. Afore dat day he was almos deef, but after dem tiny contrapshions were stuck into his ears, his hearin' becom’d twenty-twenty.

Now, not hearin' de enchanted wailin's o' de mer-criture, Fen glomm’d his oars an headed t'ward dat dedly shore wit de strong undertow. He weren't sure if'n his plan wud work or not.

Sudden-like, out o'nowhere, nature sent a rogue wave as tall as de church where Preacher O’Malley surmoned ever Sunday. Fen slew'd his dory round to face dat wave head-on; his only chance t'avoid capsizin’. De small dory rose like a cork, an crest’d de wave real handsomely. Penelope was a great dory. Fenton nam’d ‘er after sum boney-ass’d super model fom de sixties.

After de wave crash'd, calm return’d. It wud seem dat mudder nature an modren teknowlogy save’d his skin dat day.

Fen looked round t'see what happen'd to de witch fom Hades. Spyin' a small whale-like object on shore, he stir'd Penelope closer. Wit caushion an care, he beach’d de dory, an while approchin' de half fish, he pick'd up a long driftwood pole.

De mer-woman lay stiff. She look’d as if she'd been haul'd tru a knot- hole. He pok'd her wit da stick juss to be sure.

Now, on closer inspekshion, inspeakshun, inspiction...look, he notic'd she had a face only a mudder cud love.
It was gettin’ late. De sun wud soon hit de horizon, an disappear for de day. An, his stomack was still complainin' like an old woman wit arthuritice.


He scratch'd his head wit hair bein’ all mops an brooms. What to do - leave her here, or what? He needed to tink.

Well, he made a decishun, an oar'd back home.

Not long after, a month to de day t’be exact, Fen invit’d me for a sit-down meal. De frost had kick’d in, an de nor’wind treaten’d a squawl.

We was sittin’ enjoyin’ a fine diner, him not talkin’ much – nor I.
Aftward, curiosty got de bettern me. So I aks’d, “Fen, ‘ow’s de jiggin’ been since you last tangled wit de hag?”

“Mighty fine. De fish have return’d.”

He weren’t much for words. We sat der quiet-like for a few. Den I give him a complimen on de fine meal. Fish soup first, an fryed fish fillets aftwards.

Curiosty kick’d in agin, so