Life On Sea Cove Island
Who would have ever thought that fossils could talk? Certainly not the cats and children of the remote island neighborhood when the 90 year old Mr. Karl Krag walked down the street. They would run for their mortal lives because he was lethal with that crooked cane he swung around in fury at the sight of anything he viewed as unfriendly. Anything and everything was a target for destruction. Krag instilled fear in the hearts of those who encountered him. Fear encapsulated, in fact defined the man wielding his cane like the hammer of Thor, so it was wise to stay clear of this unsavory person at all cost.
Life started for him on the mainland where he hatched from an egg or popped out at the appropriate moment from a mother who apparently pushed hard enough to accomplish the task. She had a reputation as a sour old grape in that community with the morals and integrity of a river rat. The father could have been any male old enough to procreate who happened by; someone not concerned with overpopulation, someone out for a good time on a Saturday night.
Krag grew old suddenly on his own. Parents became an inconvenience quickly. He was 6 feet tall and full of leathery wrinkled features, along with brown bushy hair on head and face. It has always been perplexing why civilizations don't measure width or girth when giving dimensions of a person. Fat or thin will have to do. Krag was neither. He was medium built. It could be determined that he might be two feet wide or thick but who are we to question social convention or inventions that do not fit the narrative of descriptions.
Krag worked most of his life outside the law. Petty theft on the streets, home invasions for the purpose of burglary were the acts of his stock and trade. It was a miracle he was never incarcerated. Rumor has it that he had a lot of dirt, secret documents that could tarnish the reputations of judges and law enforcement agents at his disposal to discourage them from taking action against him.
It is said that he acquired his famous walking cane from a little old lady he had mugged. The story goes that he waited for granny to leave a pub late at night. He assumed she had consumed enough alcohol to render her harmless. That is when he sprang into action. While she was staggering along a particularly dark and winding part of the road, clutching her walking stick for support, that is when he kicked it out from under her, letting gravity do the rest. She fell hard to the ground, where a rock was there to greet her face so she screamed out. He beat her with her own stick to quiet her and then made off with the cane like the coward that he is.
He lives these days, or as most would say, ferments in his cottage on the hill over looking the ocean. Each morning he strolls down the cobblestone pathway to town for a cup of coffee and a hot biscuit or roll at the wharf front cafe/bakery. For his age he moved quickly, much like a crab stumbling over broken glass and jagged rocks. Sea Cove Island was a small fishing community of about 800 inhabitants. Most people enjoyed the cool breezes and anonymity that came with the reclusive location, away from the mainland and far removed from the rest of humanity.
Barber James was Krag's closest; correction, only friend on the island and in the world for that matter . Mr. James did not cut hair for a living as one might suppose. His parents liked uncommon names for a child so there you go. Someone should tell them that barber is a profession not a name. He was a bass fisherman like most of the men in the community. They spend 2 to 3 months at a time out at sea on a big green boat, which meant that Krag was friendless for a good part of the year.
This was not fishing season so the two men would meet up on the dock most days to talk about trivial matters and the important gossip of the day which was always in fashion. They would talk about the weather and life in general as the mood might strike them.
Mr. James was a happy go lucky young person. His tolerance level seemed to be endless. Neither man liked their first names so last names would have to do. James was James and Krag was Krag. It worked out better for everyone concerned.
After the law suites involving Mr. Krag and the unfortunate mysterious deaths of two cats in the community, most people avoided him at every chance. The innocent creatures had been found punctured, more like shish kabobed by what appeared to be the point of something that coincidentally resembled the metal tip end of Krag's cane. The fact that blood was discovered on the tip of his walking stick did not help his defense. The case was dismissed due to the lack of witnesses willing to come forward in the matter, not to mention the fact that potential witnesses would have to travel to the mainland to testify. There was no court facility in their island community so legal matters could become cumbersome. Two full time constables officers and one part time volunteer deputy were charged to keeping the peace on the tiny rock they called home. It would be an imposition for citizens to have their valuable time trifled with, (time,which was held as sacred) To take a day trip to the mainland for justice seemed trivial. They viewed it as a waste of time in light of the fact that it had to do with the deaths of two stray cats. Reason sometimes prevails.
There was a more indelible crime planted on the minds, seeping into the psyche of the locals. The common good had once again been violated by the insidious infractions recorded here in the following details; Shortly after the cats incident, a very young child had to hobble home after being punctured in his leg by a device similar to the one that killed the kitties. The child's account of the story was dismissed, could not be validated due to his tender age and the lack of witnesses.
People feared for their lives and kept their children inside when Krag was lurking about, meandering the streets looking for trouble.
Mr. James had no problems in that regard or any regard for that matter. He loved everyone and forgave them for their inadequacies. Every place needs a village idiot. This one had it in spades. Nothing bothered him as he went through life in numbing bliss, bordering on comatose. He would make the perfect married man or civil servant. No one could be more civil. No husband could be more docile. He enjoyed taking orders and being pushed around by others. Which ever way the wind was blowing it was fine with him.
The dust seemed to have settled on the dead cats and injured child matters so life was getting back to normal. Some time later in the season, it was on a particularly cold fog filled morning in October; the streets were clear of pedestrians, while Krag was more than halfway to his destination,walking rapidly in his crab like manner to The Cafe Bird Drop Inn for his morning usual, when he saw James coming towards him from the bottom road, nearly running, waving both arms back and forth like a fool and yelling loud cheers of happiness. Every moment was a thrill, every person was a pleasure and his best friend forever. He ran up to Krag to shake his hand and give him a hug but that would have been a dire miscalculation. James surmised as much at the last moment as he perceived a grumpy unhappy face signaling discontent that woke him from his delirium just in time. The cynical old man wanted nothing more than to swing at James with his trusty multi functional tool, his weapon of choice, his famous crooked cane with the pointy metal tip but held back his primal urges and instincts with a crooked smile and a twitch of an evil eye.
Krag was not senile. He was evil. He knew that if he struck his friend dead he would be without friends. He also was smart enough to know that his luck might soon run out due to recent encounters with the law. Luck does not last forever. James served a purpose. More often than not he was an irritant for obvious reasons. Syrupy sweet people sickened the old coot.
Mr. James struck up a conversation:
James: “Did you hear about Mrs. Finch serving her husband his morning coffee from a metal pot with a fish in it?”
Krag: (Yawning) “Do tell.”
James: “She was angry with him for staying out all night drinking with friends. It is said that he came in after 4:00 am stinking of liquor.”
Krag: “And this information is important because?”
James: Mrs. Finch insists on fidelity in the marriage and she suspects her one and only of being one of many if not plenty. Rumor has it that he has been hanging around with the local fish monger Alice who is being accused of doing fishy things with her husband and others and that's just for starters.
Krag: (Changing the subject) “I'm thinking about taking a boat trip to the mainland to buy a sock.”
James: “ What do socks have to do with anything?” “We have plenty of socks here at our community general store.” “And why just one sock?” “Doesn't it make sense to buy two new matching socks?”
Krag: “I've grown attached to my socks over the years.” I guess I have a sentimental attachment to them.” “One sock, the left one I think, got a hole in it and I'm too old to mend socks but I figure I can only let one sock go at a time.” “Letting two socks go at one time would be too much to handle at this juncture.” “The other sock still has some years of use left in it.” “I give it another 10 years or better before I have to take drastic steps again.”
James: “Great thinking.” “You are always so wise.” Why can't everyone be like you?”
Krag did not like people sucking up to him but he suffered through it to placate a political and social agenda. There is a time and place for selfishness. He has his entire life in front of him to concentrate on self. For the moment he will weather this storm to accommodate the local norms.
James followed him to the cafe for breakfast to continue their conversation about fish, fish mongers and fidelity Morals seem to have some significance to James so Krag bobbed his head up and down, pretending to listen. Words like monogamy and sin would sink into his subconscious making him sick, nearly putting him to sleep. He couldn't wait to get a cup of hot black coffee in him to ward off all this good.
While seated at the cafe table a little black bug walked by. Krag used the very fine tip of his cane, which he always kept sharpened and polished, to impale the beastly thing. The only thing he hated more than bugs were children. He should know. He was once one himself. Just ask his parents. They are easy to find. Just check the jails or gin joints. Krag is ninety. His parents are probably older. We doubt if they are dead. They say evil never dies.
The insect is dead. Pierced through the center. Is that a smile emerging with the dawn, cracking like a broken egg or window on the face of age, rising with the sun, cutting through the fog and cobwebs of a life still lost in crime?
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