Grayling Junction - Chapter One and a half

Glissando

It is almost early enough to catch the sun sleeping.
Pallid light drifts over the estuary as the departing moon leaves a diminishing glow held within the water. In a small wooden cabin inside a boatyard the proprietor, Amon Charon, snores deeply with the sound of felled timber. Few would dare wake him, for his temper is barbed enough even when he wakes himself.

From beneath the secret shade of an upturned rowing boat nearby comes the sound of shuffling clothing. A long yawn booms as a leg protrudes from the boat, followed immediately by a sturdy wooden stick clutched in a knotty hand. Slowly the remainder of a person shifts into view. This figure, new in the daylight, sits up and stretches his arms skyward. This seems to act as a galvanizing force, for seconds later he clambers to standing with the boat as support.

Browned by a lifetime of living outdoors this man appears to be made from living wood. His exposed arms, hands and face are weatherworn and his feet seem to protrude from the sandy floor of the boatyard like established roots supporting the rest.
The man wears ancient blue canvas trousers held up with a tough length of twine threaded through the belt loops. A faded grey shirt of coarse, twilled material has had the arms slashed free at the shoulder to reveal stout arms undoubtedly capable of considerable strength. Through by no means overweight, the man possesses the broad, barrel chest of one who has devoted a good proportion of his years idling away time in seamy harbour-side taverns.

Having righted himself the man leans on his wooden staff for support as he bends underneath the boat to retrieve another stick and a canvas bag. Leaning both sticks against the boat he reaches into a pocket midway down one trouser leg, rooting out a small metal tin. Removing the lid he sets about rolling a cigarette. With a neatly rehearsed routine the results arrive in a matter of seconds, without any apparent effort. Evident in his movement is a gentle patience, an unhurried fluidity that reveals a man with a surfeit of time.

He brings the cigarette to his lips without ceremony and listens for the sounds of the morning. He hears the faint rumble, rising and falling from the cabin. A disharmony of wailing gulls can be heard in the distance, spectral cries strung briefly over the water. Further away, on the edge of his hearing, are the whine of city traffic and the growl of industry high on the air.
His face is tanned, a brooding, heavy hide. From the look of the deeply lined skin, creased and parchment dry, this man must have seen seventy years at least. Nut-brown eyes, screwed into deep sockets sparkle with a mischief and vitality that belies his years. His gaze like the bold stare of a contented man of thirty-three.
Gaunt cheeks show knotted, burst vessels, like a bryce of worms struggling free. His features lack soft edges as though forced from the skin. Furrowed lines of merriment and mirth have caused the skin to retract, shrinking over the skull. Silvery whiskers poke from the skin around his chin and cheeks and unkempt hair clings to his scalp, dirty brown and shoulder length. The man bears the worn countenance of a man of the sea.
He is, in actual fact, an occasional fisherman. Gone, however, is the necessity to fish for a living. Nowadays trips in his boat – Once More – are simply for pleasure, chugging lazily on the slow, still water, charting a languid course into the cresting white mouth of the ocean.

Today is not a day for sailing and this man has to be somewhere.Having finished his cigarette he throws the canvas bag over his shoulder and with his wooden support he heads from the yard. A short path leads to the main street where he will turn right and follow the road a for a time, passing the entrance to the Sticks Industrial Estate, until he settles onto a bench he has made his own. He will wait there for Ron Backwards and for Tam Flint.
Only when they are three will they make their way, each bearing a gift, toward the house of Lalo Morrow.