“I’ve something to show you, Odd.”
Three weeks had passed since the surgery and except for the regular, dull throbbing in his eyeless socket Odd was feeling fine. The boys set their fly reels down and looked at Hosea standing above them. He held a metal box.
“What is it?” Odd asked.
Hosea set the box on the coffee table, knelt on one knee, and opened the box. He withdrew one of a dozen silken handkerchiefs. He peeled the silk back as though it were a banana skin and withdrew from its center a glass eyeball. He offered it to Odd, who took it and held it close to his good eye.
“What is it?” Odd asked again.
“It’s a glass eye, son. I have several here. Wanted to see whether any of them might fit.”
Odd was transfixed by the eyeball. He held it up to the sunlight in the window and rotated it as though he had in his hand a precious jewel. The sunlight caught the glass and flashed brilliant penumbras on the floor.
“I don’t understand,” Odd said.
“You put it in place of the eyeball you lost to the bear.”
“Will I see from it?”
“No, it’s cosmetic. It will look just like a regular eye, but it serves no purposes for sight.”
“So he won’t have to walk around with a patch over his eye for the rest of his life?” Daniel ventured.
“Precisely,” Hosea said. He removed another of the silk handkerchiefs and extracted a second glass eye. “If none of these work, we’ll have to order one.”
Odd reached into the box himself now, pulled another out, and unwrapped it. He couldn’t imagine it in his eye socket. For that matter, he couldn’t imagine that he’d lost one of his eyes. The thought quickened his heart and the pulsing behind the bandages intensified.
“We’ll have to wait another month or so, until the eye has healed some. But I wanted to show you. What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“It’s a good thing, Odd.”
Odd said, “What if it shatters? What if someone hits me in the eye? What if I slip out on the boat, hit my eye on the deck?”
“I believe they’re quite durable, though I suppose there’s always a chance of the eye shattering. Or cracking. In which case we’ll replace it.”
Odd was now holding the second glass eye up to the light. The quizzical expression on his face suggested he’d heard none of what Hosea said.
“In any case, wearing a glass eye will be better than walking around looking as though your face were half melted away. Hell, it might even help you find a wife someday.”
“Hosea?” Odd asked a moment later, as Hosea was wrapping the eyes back in their silk handkerchiefs.
“What is it, lad?”
“Will I still be able to apprentice with Arne Johnson this spring?”
“I reckon you will, yes.”
“Because it’s time I got started earning my share.”
“There will be plenty of time for earning your share,” Hosea said. He put the eyeballs back in the box and clasped it shut. “You boys finish with your fly line. I’ll talk to Arne Johnson soon.”
Arne Johnson saw no reason Odd shouldn’t start learning the ropes, so five weeks after he’d climbed into a bear den Odd straddled the forward thwart of Arne’s skiff as they headed out to haul the first set of the season.
Arne was a widower, childless, and the least garrulous man in a town full of reticent men. That Odd was in Arne’s skiff at all was a testament to the boy’s standing among the villagers. From the first days of his life, Odd had been the whole town’s ward. All his sweaters were hand-knit by the fishermen’s wives; his haircuts given under a bowl by the innkeeper’s wife; the men took him hunting and handed down their own sons’ outgrown boots and shotguns; Christmas morning always found twenty gifts intended for Odd on the apothecary doorstep. The godly wives took him to church on Sunday mornings, and the schoolteacher stayed after class to help with his lessons.
That brisk April morning in Arne’s skiff was just another version of those Christmas gifts and haircuts and Odd was as grateful for this as he’d been for all the kindnesses bestowed on him over the years. As Arne pulled for the open water beyond Gunflint harbor, he said, “You watch what I do. If your hands get cold, keep it to yourself. If you get hungry, eat the sandwich in your pocket. Watch the shore closely, that will tell you where we are. If you fall overboard, God rest your soul.”
Odd listened intently, coupling Arne’s terse lecture with what Danny’s father had told him about the big water. Arne’s thirty-second speech was the first of only a few short speeches that season, but what Odd learned that summer would last his lifetime. They rowed an hour offshore to Arne’s buoys, where Arne secured his oars and set immediately to hauling the net. Odd knew to sit still at first, to watch, as Arne had put it. Odd likewise knew that as Arne choked the herring through the net it was his job to box them. The fish were cold and slippery and the wind coming up his back might have dissuaded other boys, but Odd relished it from the first moment. The fear Danny had diagnosed that fateful day on the Burnt Wood River never entered his thoughts.
Five hours they hauled, tending fifteen thousand feet of nets at two different sets. They worked in harmony in a way Arne found unbelievable. The boy with the patched eye was as natural under the rolls of the boat as the water itself. When they got to shore that afternoon, after they’d hefted the boxes into Arne’s harborside fish house, as Arne gutted and salted the fish and Odd packed them, Arne offered the only praise he ever would. “You’ve a fisherman’s blood,” he said.
Odd would have known this without hearing it, but he blushed all the same, the color in his cheeks announcing not only his embarrassment but also his thanks for the chance.
Over the course of that summer Arne taught Odd everything: how the fish ran, what the wind meant, how to judge a lowering sky, how to mend a net. He taught him how to barter with the fishmonger and keep a ledger, how to sew oilskin and make gunnysack anchors. At the end of summer, after a long day on the water and in the fish house, as Arne cooked sausages and onions on the stove, he told Odd to sit down.
“We’ll start building you a skiff this winter. There’s plenty of work to do in winter without building a boat, too, but together we can manage. Next spring you’ll get your first grounds. You’ll use my fish house.”
Odd nodded.
Arne stirred the sausages, forked an onion into his mouth.
“The grounds won’t yield much. They’ll be near the shoreline. And you’ll still be apprenticing, but you’ll be doing it in your own boat. The season after next you’ll be on your own. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now have some grub.”
The leaves were turning by the time Hosea fit the glass eye. Odd sat before a mirror in Hosea’s examination room. Though his eye still pulsed and sometimes ached behind the patch, he could tolerate it. He hadn’t seen the wound yet, and this fact alone worried him that morning.
“You look just like your mother, Odd,” Hosea said.
Odd glanced up in the mirror. Hosea was standing behind him, his arms crossed.
“She’d be proud of the young man sitting here today. Even if he was fool enough to raid a bear den.”
Odd smiled.
“Are you ready for this?”
“Where’s Rebekah?”
“She’s tending the store. You can show her when we’re finished.”
“All right.”
“Okay?”
Odd nodded.
It took a few minutes for Odd to look into the mirror. When he did, all he saw was the sunken lids of his wounded eye. It dawned on him at once that the space where his eyeball once had been looked an awful lot like a miniature version of the cave entrance in which he had lost it. The eyebrow above the wound had grown back darker than the eyebrow above his good eye, and the effect was shadowy. It seemed to set the hole where his eye should have been deeper in his face.