Season 5 – Episode 19 (Northern Lights)
“What is happening?” questioned Rusty
“Just sit still,” replied Ellie. “I’m almost finished.”
Overnight, the burns that torched Rusty’s eyebrows had scabbed over enough so that Ellie could apply one band-aid per brow. Underneath, she subbed out Celine’s homemade ointment concoction and replaced it with some Dr. Maggie Skin Care she had found in the boat house. This was the recommended treatment for wounds on dogs—close enough in Ellie’s estimation.
Then, she painted on some eyebrows before Rusty exposed himself to the camp clientele. This proved a tad bit trickier, but as luck would have it, Ellie scored big in the boat house and located a used king-sized permanent marker. This would suffice to paint on some stylish eyebrows… albeit the color was a rich-deep royal blue.
“No,” said Rusty. “I’m not talking about the band-aids or whatever it is you’re doing—I’m talking about what’s going on between you and me.”
“Well, I’m certainly not interested in a friend with benefits sort of relationship, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Ellie. “I’ve already told you—I’m willing to see where things go. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, honestly?”
“Ok,” countered Rusty, “but what about…” And before he could finish Link came prancing into the bunkhouse. Normally, being British, he was quite polite and accommodating. But today was different. Today the casualness of Ellie, taking over Sally’s space, had pushed his Labrador buttons. Link was going to have a Dog Day Morning.
Speaking of mornings, flight exhaustion had officially set in with Team Eagle; each member of the party had been in the air so long they no longer knew if it was day or night. That being said, they slept.
Except for Hazel. She was keen on finding out what the insignia on Win’s ankle read. So, with minutes remaining before they touched down in Harare (HRE) she made her move.
Win did not appear to be getting REM sleep. No one can get that comfortable while flying, even on a private charter. But the fact that she had not twitched her reclined head in more than thirty minutes was enough of a green light for Hazel to go.
First, she stood from her seat and then quickly and quietly glided over and knelt in the aisle close enough to smell Win’s fragrance. It was a pungent—but oddly—romantically luring perfume.
Damn, not sexy like the beach, thought Hazel as she sniffed. It’s more like a heavily stained reservoir filled with algae, but seductive. Nice.
Win’s legs were crossed at the ankles which made for a nearly impossible viewing. Hazel’s option was to gently reach out, clasp behind the calf of one leg with her left hand and hoist the forefront of the ankle with her right. She lifted ever so slightly to successfully unhinge the locked legs. Or so she thought…
Eight seconds after hiking the pant leg she heard a click that released the safety on a Glock 19, and then the coolness of a barrel rested very near her temple. Regardless of being busted, it made no difference—the insignia was unidentifiable. Possibly some sort of tribal dialect, but Hazel now had a fight or flight train of thought.
“Hello,” whispered an awakened Win with a grim voice. And then mechanically—cool as a cucumber with the steadiness of the firearm— “Is there something I might help you with down there, Hazel Brown?”
At that point Hazel’s only option was to look up and shrug her shoulders. Then a voice from the past—her mother’s—spoke to her: Honesty is always the best policy. And then being the rebel that she was, Hazel lied through her perfectly polished teeth.
“Um, yeah—I think my contact popped out of my eye while I was sleeping. I thought it may have landed somewhere back here,” stated Hazel.
“Weird,” replied Win with a doubtful sideways glance. “Three rows back and across the aisle. That’s quite a launch.” Then she placed her handgun back in its shoulder holster under her sweater vest and oddly apologized for drawing on Hazel.
“Sorry, you know I’m not used to having someone massage my feet, if that’s what you intended,” she said with a sarcastic chuckle. “And I’m also sorry for the jerk reaction with the gun. Just trained reflex, I guess. But if it’s the tattoo you’re interested in, it would have been easier to ask me about it.”
“Ok, I will—what gives with the insignia?” asked Hazel. “I get the part with the river dragon, but what’s with the writing?”
“His flesh is ours,” replied Win in a serious tone. “A sacred belief from the region in which I was raised.”
“So, all this about the Nyami Nyami—the Zambezi River God—you’re a believer?”
“As I told Eagle One,” said Win, “you must be willing to do anything if I am to be your fishing guide. And then we will have a chance to win this tournament.”
“Well, for me, winning’s not always everything,” countered Hazel.
“But dying is… Just ask Sage Golden.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?” asked Hazel.
“I’m talking about an individual who is on a top-secret list that is known by very few. Did you know she comes from the darkest streets of Sicily? Or that her real name is actually Carmela Riptide Pescatore? That’s right, Hazel… she is THE daughter of mobster Biggy The Boat Pescatore. A name that I’m quite certain will resonate with Sally Squatsnfishes.”
“Win, why are you telling me this? Are you really talking about winning a fishing tournament, or are you threatening that someone on Team Eagle is going to die?”
Speaking of death… our camp mascot Link was currently showing his crooked teeth and producing his best version of a guttural growl, that a less than a year-old puppy could muster. Ellie had moved in on sacred territory… Sally was no longer sitting next to Rusty on his bed… and Link was not having it.
After his fourth bark, followed by a continuous growl, Rusty stood from the bed and pointed a stern index finger in the dog’s direction. “Ok… that’s quite enough, young man… you need to go outside,” instructed the master to his student.
But instead… Link misunderstood the command and took the physical gesture and the voice as a direct admission to proceed and attack Ellie at her bedside location.
The paws came up first… all four… and before you could say Celine don’t mix that muskrat meat in the chocolate pudding… he was imposing his doggy will by jumping up on the chest of Ms. Waylayer.
“Link, what the heck has gotten into you?” hissed Rusty. “Get down, right now,” and he grabbed Link’s collar with enough force to twist him to the floor. Unfortunately, Rusty went with him.
As the two tumbled to the turf… the fur flew… the band-aids were pushed to the temples… and somehow in the mix Link came out on top of the true to life doggy pile. Rusty then called uncle and returned Link’s aviators cap which had somehow inadvertently ended up spun backwards on his head.
“Now I remember why I faked that twisted ankle to get out of junior high wrestling,” Rusty muttered to himself while pulling up off the floor.
Then, with more bark than bite Link bolted for the door. “It’s ok, Rusty. Really, I get it. Let him go,” said Ellie. “I’m certainly walking a tight rope by being here. Unless like Link… you’d rather I be Sally.”
–To Be Continued–
Stop squirming, sir. This is a salve my Great Aunt Tootie conjured using tree sap from a jack pine. I didn’t have the mix of rhubarb root to go with the sap—you wouldn’t transplant a patch to the island like I asked—which again I’m telling you would grow exceptionally well on the northwest side of the bath house—so I dug through the fish guts from today’s cleanings and sorted out thirteen walleye livers—each the size of a small plum. Which also explains why your eyes might be burning—I quite possibly or mistakenly—however you arrive at the summation—may have gotten some bile from a few gallbladders in the mix—now, is it easing the pain of the burn—or are you just blithering like a baby?
Rusty’s long, bushy brown eyebrows were gone. The fishing contest had blazed to a halt some thirty minutes ago… and was ultimately canceled.
Side by side competing against Celine for honors of Best Wednesday Night Walleye Fish Fryer, Rusty was going fillet for fillet with the chef from Quebec City until conditions went awry. YES, Rusty’s portion of the campfire was overheating his legs, and the occasional rocketing ember was piercing through the chest of his shirt. NO, with Elly Waylayer rooting for him from the site of the judge’s panel, he was not going to back away.
The first crack of lightning dispersed the crowd of camp guests from the fire pit area. They scampered toward the covered portion of the deck on the lodge and continued viewing. Then Minister Nev, counting aloud, the contest is tied at twenty-three fillets cooked per contestant, made the sign of the cross on his chest.
When the second bolt unleashed from the skies and lit up the woods across the harbor, Ellie suggested a postponement, but her suggestion fell on deaf ears. Mainly, Rusty’s.
“At least it’s not raining,” said Rusty… about three seconds before the first raindrop hit the frying pan. “No need to panic—we can finish.”
“I’m taking my fillets and heading for the lodge, Rustacean,” said Celine, as she pulled four more crispy fillets from the pan and added them to her existing stack. “Not that I’m conceding, but where I come from mixing rainwater and hot frying oil is like lining up a row of your cousins and licking their eyebrows.”
Rusty did not ask for an explanation for her analogy. He was occupied with a steady rain, with the needle pointing toward a downpour. Holding his mesh truckers cap with the FSFO logo over the pan did little to deter the explosion. Even Ellie bailed on him at this point in the game.
As the inferno made its way past the heights of the island treetops, Rusty’s eyebrows passed with it along the way. Two inches closer to the fire and he would have been Kojak.
Days later, locals on mainland near the town of Jackfish would say there was a volcanic eruption on one of the nearby islands of Lac des Bois. Others who witnessed the blazing ball claimed it was Northern Lights.
Back on the plane that was headed towards Harare there was a light that blinked three times on Sally’s burner phone. The message she had been waiting for read, “WD cleared for landing Eagle ONE. She is part of your flock. Copy? Over.”
Sally thought… and then responded to the text message, “HQ, copy. WD under my wing.”
Just then the door to the cockpit opened and Winifred Dixie entered the main cabin wearing a world-series poker face. She made her way toward Team Eagle and asked if anything was needed…
Hazel said she was good. Ron felt it was close to happy hour—somewhere—and asked for a highball. Jackie, with Sage still on his mind, quizzed Win about the prospects of dating the Sicilian fashion model.
Then Sally said, “Hey, Win… this team of misfits still needs to acquire a guide for the tournament. Any chance you’d join us?”
Without response Win walked toward Sally and took the nearest available seat. With folded arms she remained silent and stared into Sally’s eyes.
“Look,” said Sally, “I know I didn’t take your word at face value… but the way things have been going sideways—even before I left The States… I needed to know for sure that you were truly an Eagle. And now it’s been confirmed with HQ.”
“It has?” questioned Win. And then quickly, “Yes, I’m sure it has.”
Pausing for a second, Sally continued, “We need to get locked in for this fishing contest. Anglers from around the world are gunning to win. Can I count on you as our team’s guide?”
“I’m ready to pull the trigger,” responded Win. “As soon as we arrive.”
“Perfect,” replied Sally. “I’m willing to do whatever we have to, to take first place.”
“Anything? Including the possibility of facing the Nyami Nyami?”
“Absolutely, YES, anything,” guaranteed Sally.
Across the aisle… immediately to her left… Hazel stared at an inscription on the inside of Win’s ankle. It was printed just below a tattoo of the infamous river dragon.
–To Be Continued–