Water boils at 212 degrees Fahrenheit. Rusty’s Norwegian relatives allowed 8 to 10 minutes for Lutefisk to cook. Crayfish were given relatively the same amount of time.
Unfortunately for the Lutefisk, and Christmas holidays celebrated at Aunt Dolly’s home… There were tendencies for those in attendance to suffer through meals of fillets not properly soaked in cold water.
As required… Lye was used to conjure a gelatinous texture, in turn making the cod somewhat edible. That was IF the fish were soaked multiple times prior to cooking.
If not? Basically, the fish fillets became a HOT MESS… And this is where Rusty currently “LYED” waiting for his newly found beaver pond to reach a boil. As it stood, he would have much preferred to be eating the crayfish.
Holding the roots of the beaver pond with both hands, Rusty held himself as near to the bottom as possible, being totally submerged from head to toe. The water was muddy… He could feel the presence of the beaver family promoting a similar hide. The flames now surrounded the dugout and even underwater he could feel the pressure of the heat.
Unable to hold out without breathing, he momentarily surfaced to gasp a breath. Huge mistake. But one he would have to endure.
The air sizzled. His face instantly seared. His lips—GOD FOR HEAT—it felt like he was the crayfish. He had exposed himself briefly to the boil, and now he gasped for life. The process of going from boiling back to cold water was a necessary evil. One that he regretted while plunging beneath the surface with the remaining heat held in his throat.
Round two… “ALREADY”, he thought. But he needed to breathe the fire. If only he were the Mangrove Killifish (Season-One), he would be amphibious and afford the luxury of remaining below water level. But this was reality, Peter Pan—He gasped and choked—The heat hitting him and splitting his skin.
One resolute breath. One gasp of fire before swallowing and diving back under.
And then—mid breath—just as he submerged—the silhouette of a human full-on diving headfirst through the ring of fire and splashing down with authority.
The body settled on the bottom, shoulder to shoulder, arm touching arm, leg pressing against leg, against the frame of Rusty Flathers.
“Friend or foe!” raced Rusty’s thoughts. “Too churned, this coffee-stained water.”
Then someone or something reached out—grasping the flannel shirt on his chest—pulling him toward the surface.
“No time like the present,” Rusty returned the favor—a pinned-down fist-locked move. “If I’m going to the top, so are you!”
Simultaneously, both figures broke the surface. “No! Stop!” Rusty screamed.
But the attacker would not release his grip, even though Rusty recognized this ghost of a figure. It was his—former guide—Clarence Bishop.
Back below the surface of the water, they thrashed. Clarence had NOT recognized him.
Then—with an ingenious thought—Rusty released one hand from Clarence’s chest and did his best underwater impersonation of the signature fishing move. Clarence’s move.
His wrist was bent at a 45-degree angle, the slow, purposeful lift of the willow stick with bent nail and no bait. Rusty had watched Clarence do it multiple times. Never rush on the up motion and always snap and speed the presentation on the down motion.
No one in the world fished like that. And only someone from FSFO or Rusty Flathers might be the person Clarence would identify as a person making a failed attempt at mimicking his signature fishing presentation.
Clarence’s eyes noticeably widened in the murky water. “The sacred technique,” he thought, “Only Rusty FEATHERS would be dumb enough to attempt mirroring my patented wand move.”
Without further threat, he released his grip on Rusty’s shirt. “Finally, someone other than the bad guys,” Clarence confirmed.
As the fire raged across Moose Island… Sally continued her aerial water assault while Tawny rounded up the remainder of her posse. Marlin and Minister Nev were located east of the island… Idling safely offshore away from the heat, eyes on lookout, awaiting further instruction from their fearless leader.
“Any sign of Cosmoid—Stash—or Rod Gills?” Tawny questioned as they pulled along the starboard side of Marlin’s boat. “Cos disappeared on us from the west side of the island, and when we lost sight of Rusty, we had to abandon the island and claim his boat from the south beach.”
Neither Marlin nor Neville responded. Both identified Alvin, but they could not place the mystery man Sam Doright. They were also smart enough to recognize a person in shock (Alvin), and held their tongues as to the whereabouts of Cy and Ted.
“We haven’t seen Cos,” Nev finally offered and broke the awkward silence. “And I’ve been glassing to the north, saw ONE boat powering away from us, but it was already too far out in the smoke and haze to identify. That was maybe thirty minutes ago, about the time the fire had spread halfway across the island.”
“So, you saw a boat, but couldn’t make out passengers, the make of the boat, anything?” Tawny countered.
“Yeah, no. Nothing.” Marlin chipped in.
“OK, well, that’s better late than never Sally Squatsnfishes in the water bomber plane. Hopefully she’ll have this blaze contained before it jumps. In the meantime, you guys follow me and we’ll check the north side. Maybe get a read on Stash and Rod.”
“Hard to believe they would have stuck it out with the smoke rolling,” responded Marlin.
“Trust in the Lord,” added Minister Nev.
“I’d rather trust in myself,” finished Tawny.
Before hitting the throttle, she keyed the mic on the marine band radio. “Celine, this is Tawny. You copy FSFO? Come in Celine. Radio check. Copy?”
First silence… Then constant static with intermittent sounds of a voice being spliced into play. “Celine, do you read me? Keep your thumb held down on the mic bar while you’re talking. Over?”
Still crackling… Then clear. “OH! AHOY! Yes! Tawny! It’s FSFO, it’s me Celine!”
“Yes, copy, I read you now Celine. Have you heard from either Cos, Stash or Rod? Over…”
“Tawny, I haven’t heard from anyone but Sally. She was HERE to pick up Link with a crazy huge plane. And Tawny, you should have seen the squirrels on the island dropping out of the trees when that roaring beast, and I know what you’re thinking but I’m talking about the plane, came into the harbor.
Did you know that squirrels can fall from ANY heights and survive? I’ve been watching Link’s squirrel buddy Cracker Jack, or is his name Gerald? Either way, I’ve been calling him Cracker Jack—but from a distance I’ve been watching and that dude can freefall from the tallest Norway Pine on the island and land on all fours. And it’s not even a….”
“Celine, stop! Take your thumb off the mic,” Tawny growled.
“Even a tumbling or cartwheeling situation,” Celine droned. “It’s as if they….”
Tawny stared into the marine band radio wishing to cast a curse on Celine. She pressed the mic button continuously to break up her endless story.
“Anyway… How’s the fire out there Tawn? LOTS of smoke, eh? I made popcorn. Are you guys having shore lunch with Rusty?” Celine rambled. “And you know how people say everything tastes like chicken… Because I’m looking at all these squirrels and wondering….”
Tawny clicked off the radio. “Let’s go.”
The band of boats traveled north and were about to go around the island when they heard it—the Super Scooper engines—sputtering. Then silence. Tawny was the first to look up and see the red plane with its yellow stripes, banking hard left, losing altitude.
“She’s going down!” Sam hollered.
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 