FENTON AND THE FAT FISH
It's colder than 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 o' twenty. The worse ting is, it's only de start of Octobur.
Life here on the Rock is no picnic. Yep, us Newfies got to work hard to keep livin'. Which remembers me ‘bout my old friend Fenton Snow. He set his self way out north-east of here - sum place called Saltwater Bay. If ya think this is cold - Whee, you should take a hike to his shack.
Oh, the story? Set right down, and I'll pour you a bit of Screech. Not only will it erode her stomak liner, but is better than aunty-freeze...he he.
Well, ole Fenton weren't the smartest man round. You know – not de sharpest tool in de deck. I kin atest to that, but he was wily. A good hunter and fisher he was too. Cum this time o'year he'd be out der cuttin' wood, gettin' ready for dat real cold. Minus fifty in the wind... on a good day. He'd be doin' sum huntin' too, fer that same reason. The 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 plentiful, dey'd literly jump in yer boat. You 'ad th'fight dem off or else dey'd sink ya. Now, tings are diferent, I tells ya. You could cast all day an cum up empty handed.
Well this was a turnin' point in ole Fen's life. I ain't too sure if he's a yarnin’ me or being truth like. Most of dem times, he's full of piss ‘n wind.
So he tells me dat after rowin' most o' de morn an afternoon, he'd cum up with less dan he started, an was ‘bout frozen to death. He swears, if he seen a polar bear, he wound't be surprised.
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 farther dan ever.
As he was reelin' in de line, he witness a mighty splash juss right of his boat. As quick as he could, he cast into dat direction, hopin's to snag diner - an possibly sumting big 'nuff to salt an dry for de 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 Eskimo mama.
He said, 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?"
Next, Fen got afeared. He never seen anyting like dis. Maybe he taught it was a mirage - not on sand, but on water. It was a woman. A big woman in de freezin’ ocean.
"Hey you, cumon here. You'll catch yerself a death of a cold. "
As she swam closer, Fen notic’d she was a good 'n fass swimmer. She would o 'bin in that olympicks, dat's how fass she was. Swimmin' round him, makin' him dizzier dan his Saturday nights at de Green Frog Bar when younger.
What he seen next almos had him fall back in dat boat an loose his gear. "Dat woman...she is bein’ swallered by a large fish," he taught to his self. "Got to help her!"
As dat fish was pushin' her t'wards his dory, Fen lifted his oar way over his head, ready to smack de bejezzes outa de killin’ whale. Yet as soon as she got near, his old eyes bugged 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 cleared, Fen, merely pointed, and yell'd "Get far as away fom me you spam of Satan. What do yer want fom me? I'm a god-fearin' man!"
What's worse was dis abomination resembled his wife.
Forty years back, Fen met and hitch'd onto Margerite-Kelly Thompson. He fell head o' heel over his 'little pumpkin'. Her shape was not unlike a pumpkin, an she sported 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 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 was callin' her 'Large Marg'. An, in no time, callin' her dat to her face.
At home, tings wasn't great either. Let's not say dat Fenton was henpecked, he'd juss did everting his wife ask'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 the front door. Pass'd on...past the paint-peelin' front gate, an disappeared out o’site.
Ole Fen had tears in his eyes, not fom cryin', but fom laughin's real hard. He never was happier...except one late evnin', a while afore he met his future 'ball 'n chain'.
Betty, Preacher O'Malley's daughter introducted him to heaven permaturly, afore his atual callin’. For sum odd reason, still a mystry to Fenton an de comunity, the preacher closed up shop, an skedaddled out of town two month later. Yet, anuther 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 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 would be anew.
So dis monstocity Marg-look-alike wit scales, was makin's fun o'Fenton. She told him dat de reason dere ere no fish was cause she ate dem all or simply ascair’d dem away. As she tole ‘im dis, his stomack continu’d to belli-ache. At dis point, wit no catch, he turned to head home. But suddenlike a strange song shook de inside o' his mind. He tried to git rid o've it but it persist’d. Dis was when Fen membered the mystology of anshient sireen, who lured pore sailors to dere graves by singin'. "I'm onto you, you hag com hell. Git lost!"
Dat dint work too well. De sireen's toon got stronger, an he couldna resist. De jagged shore was juss a shot gun away...real close, but Fenton wasn't oarin'. His befuddle mind was comatos'd.
De wind pick'd an was cold enuff to skin ya.
Fenton had hisself an Idee. If he cud Jess lure de ugly sea witch wit de face like a hen's are hole in de nor east winds, maybe he cud let the evenin's strong undercurent suck her down. But she sung harder dan ever. As I said afore, Ole Fen was one knife short of a dozen, but he had nother plan. A quick as can, he pull'd out two gerkin sized tinga-ma-gigs fon each ear. Gerkins bein' stunted cukes. Dese were tings de doc gave him to hear better. Fore day he was most deef, but after them tiny contraptions, his hearin' becomed twenty-twenty.
Now, not hearin' de enchanted wailin's o' de mer-criture, Fen glommed his oars an headed t'ward de dedly shore wit de strong under tow. He weren't sure if'n his plan would work.
Sudden-like, out o'nowhere, nature sent a rogue wave as tall as de church where preacher Johnson surmoned ever Sunday. Fen slew'd his dory round to face day wave head on. His only chance t'avoid captizing. De small dory rose like a cork, an crested de wave real handsomely. Penelope was a great dory. Fen named her after a boney super model com the sixties.
After de wave crash'd, an calm returned, 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 beached de dory, an approchin' de half fish, he pick'd up a long driftwood stick. De mer-woman lay stiff. She looked 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 getti'n late. De sun would soon hit the horizon, an disappear for de day. An...his stomack was complainin' like an old woman wit artheritice.
He scratch'd his head wit hair being 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, 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 ask’d, “Fen, ow’s de jiggin’ been since de since you last tangled wit de hag?”
“Mighty fine.”
He weren’t much for words, we sat der quiet-like for a few. Den I trew him a compliment on de fine meal. Fish soup an fish fillets aftwards.
Curiosty kick’d in agin, so between bites o’de pepper’d fish morsel, I as’d him, “Fen, what hapn’d to dat sea witch?”
He juss pointed a boney finger out de side window, an tole me, “See dat stone marker? Dat’s where I done bury’d her...well, at least half of her.”
