the feel of it would awaken some remembrance of similar activity. He brought the dirt close to his nose, smelling it as he did the flowers. But the moist earth, the perfume-scented flowers did nothing for him, awakened nothing.
His nights were spent reading the many books in Gordon’s library, hoping that some page, perhaps just a single sentence would provide him with a key that would open other doors now so securely locked.
One afternoon, thinking the fishing rod he held in his hands felt a little familiar, he went to the meadow steam. Walking along, he found a black pool where fish swarmed in the depths. He found himself shortening his line, and somehow the leader and the fly seemed familiar, too. He must have fished before, and within him rose a keen sense of anticipation, of frenzied hope. Maybe here was his key! He slid down the steep grassy bank, and then stopped. He drew his arm back, his wrist snapped. The reel whirled beneath his thumb. He had cast easily. He had fished before! There was no doubt of it! The fly rested but a second on the surface of the stream, and then came a flash of a white body from the deep blackness. He felt the fish strike, but he was hardly conscious of the fight to land it.
Later he held his catch in his hands, looking at it as if he expected the fish to speak and tell him who he really was. He sat there until the stream became dark in the deep shadows of the setting sun. Finally he got to his feet, and started back for the cottage. He had found something he had done before. He had found a key
but it had opened no other doors
. A feeling of bitterness, of utter defeat and hopelessness walked with him. Nothing would change, ever change, for him.
The next few days he did nothing. Gordon watched him and offered no sympathy. “This is your fight, McGregor,” the man said. “No one can help you but yourself.” The boy remained silent.
Early the following week Gordon said, “I’m going to town for supplies. You can come or stay here just as you like.” He didn’t meet the boy’s eyes.
McGregor knew it was time to go, that Gordonhad had enough of playing host and friend and nursemaid to him. Gordon wanted to be left alone, to live the quiet, secluded life he had chosen for himself six years ago.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
Surprised, the man looked up. “It’s an all-day trip,” he said, “and you’ll have to walk. Goldie will be carrying some books I’m mailing back to a friend in California.”
McGregor carried his breakfast dishes to the sink. “I’ve walked before,” he said, and then his eyes dropped to the high boots he wore. “I’ll have to keep these,” he added, “and your clothes. But some day …”
“You’re coming back with me. You’re welcome here.”
The boy washed the dishes. “No, you’ve done enough. As you said the other night, it’s my fight. No one can help me but myself.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it must have sounded to you, McGregor.”
“It sounded all right. It still makes sense. I’ll find a way out.”
“There’s not much to do in Leesburg. It’s pretty small.”
“Then I’ll go on until I find work.”
“You got that money to help.…” Gordon stopped abruptly when the boy turned and faced him.
“Keep it,” McGregor said. “I don’t even want to think about it now. Later, when I learn …”
The tall man stood up. “All right, if you want it that way. It’ll be here when you decide what to do with it.”He went to the sink, and together they finished the dishes in silence.
Goldie stood still, awaiting his pack. Gordon fondled the burro’s head, but his eyes were inquisitively watching the boy. McGregor had gone for the hobbled burro at the far end of the meadow. He had taken the halter and put it on Goldie
before
taking off the burro’s hobbles.
Perhaps
, Gordon thought,
I’m putting too much emphasis on this. But I remember my first time with Goldie. Tenderfoot that I was, I went and freed
His nights were spent reading the many books in Gordon’s library, hoping that some page, perhaps just a single sentence would provide him with a key that would open other doors now so securely locked.
One afternoon, thinking the fishing rod he held in his hands felt a little familiar, he went to the meadow steam. Walking along, he found a black pool where fish swarmed in the depths. He found himself shortening his line, and somehow the leader and the fly seemed familiar, too. He must have fished before, and within him rose a keen sense of anticipation, of frenzied hope. Maybe here was his key! He slid down the steep grassy bank, and then stopped. He drew his arm back, his wrist snapped. The reel whirled beneath his thumb. He had cast easily. He had fished before! There was no doubt of it! The fly rested but a second on the surface of the stream, and then came a flash of a white body from the deep blackness. He felt the fish strike, but he was hardly conscious of the fight to land it.
Later he held his catch in his hands, looking at it as if he expected the fish to speak and tell him who he really was. He sat there until the stream became dark in the deep shadows of the setting sun. Finally he got to his feet, and started back for the cottage. He had found something he had done before. He had found a key
but it had opened no other doors
. A feeling of bitterness, of utter defeat and hopelessness walked with him. Nothing would change, ever change, for him.
The next few days he did nothing. Gordon watched him and offered no sympathy. “This is your fight, McGregor,” the man said. “No one can help you but yourself.” The boy remained silent.
Early the following week Gordon said, “I’m going to town for supplies. You can come or stay here just as you like.” He didn’t meet the boy’s eyes.
McGregor knew it was time to go, that Gordonhad had enough of playing host and friend and nursemaid to him. Gordon wanted to be left alone, to live the quiet, secluded life he had chosen for himself six years ago.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
Surprised, the man looked up. “It’s an all-day trip,” he said, “and you’ll have to walk. Goldie will be carrying some books I’m mailing back to a friend in California.”
McGregor carried his breakfast dishes to the sink. “I’ve walked before,” he said, and then his eyes dropped to the high boots he wore. “I’ll have to keep these,” he added, “and your clothes. But some day …”
“You’re coming back with me. You’re welcome here.”
The boy washed the dishes. “No, you’ve done enough. As you said the other night, it’s my fight. No one can help me but myself.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it must have sounded to you, McGregor.”
“It sounded all right. It still makes sense. I’ll find a way out.”
“There’s not much to do in Leesburg. It’s pretty small.”
“Then I’ll go on until I find work.”
“You got that money to help.…” Gordon stopped abruptly when the boy turned and faced him.
“Keep it,” McGregor said. “I don’t even want to think about it now. Later, when I learn …”
The tall man stood up. “All right, if you want it that way. It’ll be here when you decide what to do with it.”He went to the sink, and together they finished the dishes in silence.
Goldie stood still, awaiting his pack. Gordon fondled the burro’s head, but his eyes were inquisitively watching the boy. McGregor had gone for the hobbled burro at the far end of the meadow. He had taken the halter and put it on Goldie
before
taking off the burro’s hobbles.
Perhaps
, Gordon thought,
I’m putting too much emphasis on this. But I remember my first time with Goldie. Tenderfoot that I was, I went and freed
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