Martin the fisherboy
by Caryl Nugara
There was a fisherboy who lived
in a hut on a distant island wrapped in silence except for the sound of
the sea. Where the waters met the sand, a rock stood firm as if it had
been thrown down angrily from the skies above. Martin could never recall
his parents but he was content living with fishermen whose strangely
marked behavior and discerning eyes fascinated him.
 He watched the pebbles which seemed washed with silver and
queer-shaped shells tarnished by the salty waves. He liked the sharp
tang of the sea carried in the wind and heard the waves lashing the
mangroves. There he sat on that rock, his long legs dangling. He gazed
into the transparent, greenish blue water and marvelled at the little
fish darting in and out. Some of them were as beautiful as bits of
jewels. He roamed the beach for miles, dragging behind him brown
seaweed-like lengths of discarded rags.
He even imagined he had discovered the sea-witches’ skirts which had
got washed ashore from a deep, dark cavernous rock. The fishermen always
kept eyes on him. Swilling toddy from rusty cans and splashing out
swash-buckling stories, Martin could not understand but would burst into
laughter with them.
He listened to the tales told of brave fishermen whose lives were
claimed by the solemn, unpredictable ocean. He loved their sea-songs and
gradually fell asleep, lulled by the movements of the boat. He was
grateful to these brawny men though sometimes the desire to swim away
into the distance kept on haunting him. He drove those thoughts out of
his mind and decided that he would not let the allurement of the
unfamiliar ever entice him.
He noticed that a wonderful sunset had turned the sea into a
different shade of blue and the sky was sloshed with mysterious colours.
Martin ran to his hut and his urgency almost took his breath away.
|
