Works of Hemingway - Bedtime Stories for Middle School Students [V]

Author: (American) Hemingway
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: The old man is watching, waiting for it to come back, but neither of the sharks appears. Then he sees one of them circling around on the surface of the water. He doesn’t see the fin of the other one. He can’t expect to kill them anymore, he thinks. I could do it when I was young and strong. But I’ve already badly wounded both of them. Neither one will feel good about it. If I could swing a baseball bat with both hands, I’m sure I could kill one of them. Even now, he thinks, I could still do it. He doesn’t want to look at the fish again. He knows half of its body has already been torn apart. When he was fighting the sharks earlier, the sun had already set. “It’s almost dark now,” he says, “I’ll see the lights of Havana soon. If I go too far east, I’ll see the lights of a newly opened beach.” I’m not far from land now, he thinks. I hope no one is worried about me. Of course, the boy will be worried about me. But I believe he has confidence. Many old fishermen will also worry about me. And many others, he thinks. I really live in a great town. He can’t talk to the big fish anymore because it’s been ruined so badly. Suddenly, something comes to his mind. “Half a fish,” he says, “You were whole. I’m sorry I went out too far. I’ve ruined both of us. But we’ve killed a lot of sharks, you and I, and wounded many others. How many have you killed, old fish? That long-beaked thing on your head isn’t there for nothing.” He always likes to think about the fish, imagining how it would deal with a shark if it could swim freely. I should cut off its mouth and use it to fight the sharks, he thinks. But there’s no axe on the boat, and later he lost the knife too. But if I could cut it off and tie it to the oar handle, what a good weapon that would be. Then we could fight them together. What if they come at night? What would you do? “Fight them,” he says, “I’ll fight them until the end.” But in the current darkness, he can’t see the red light on the horizon or the lights. There’s only the wind and the tightly set sail. He feels that he might already be dead. He closes his hands and touches his palms. These hands aren’t dead. He can feel the pain of life by opening and closing them. He leans his back against the stern of the boat, knowing he’s not dead. His shoulder tells him so. I promised to say many prayers if I caught this fish, but I’m too tired to say them now. Better just wrap the bag around my shoulder. He lies on the stern, steering while watching the sky, waiting for the reflection on the horizon. I still have half a fish, he thinks. Maybe I’ll be lucky and take the front half back. I must have some luck. No, he says. You went too far and ruined your luck. “Don’t talk nonsense,” he says aloud, “Stay alert and steer well. Maybe you still have a lot of luck.” “If luck could be bought, that would be great,” he says. What could I use to buy luck? he asks himself. Could it be a lost harpoon, a broken knife, or injured hands? “Maybe,” he says, “You once wanted to buy it with eighty-four days at sea. They almost sold it to you.” Stop thinking about this, he thinks. Luck comes in many different ways. Who can recognize it? But whatever luck comes, I want some. I’ll give anything in return. I hope I can see the reflection of the lights, he thinks. I want too much. But my current wish is just this. He tries to sit more comfortably and steers well, because the pain tells him he’s still alive. Around ten o’clock at night, he sees the reflection of the city lights on the horizon. At first, it’s just faint, like the faint light in the sky before the moon rises. Then it gradually becomes clearer as the ocean is whipped into waves by the growing wind. He’s already in the red light, he thinks, and won’t be far from the edge of the Gulf Stream for much longer. Everything is over now, he thinks. They might still come to attack me. But how can I fight them in the dark with no weapons? His body is stiff and painful now, and the cold of the night makes every wound and overexerted part of his body hurt badly. I hope I don’t have to fight anymore, he thinks. How I wish I didn’t have to fight anymore. But at midnight, he fights again, and this time he knows it’s futile. They came in groups, straight for the fish. He only sees the patterns of their fins on the surface of the water and the glint of their scales. He swings the stick at their heads, hearing the sound of their jaws snapping shut and the sound of them biting the fish, making the boat rock. He can’t see the target clearly, but whatever he feels and hears, he swings the stick wildly. He feels something grab his stick and then he drops it. He violently twists the tiller off the rudder and uses it to strike and chop. His hands clench repeatedly, jabbing downward. But by then, they’ve all swum to the bow of the boat, one after another, piling on, biting off pieces of meat, and tearing away the shiny meat from the water when they turn around. Finally, one shark comes at the head of the fish, and he knows it’s all over. He swings the tiller at the shark’s head, hitting its thick, meaty jaw where the teeth can’t bite through. He strikes once, twice, and again. He hears the sound of the tiller breaking, and he stabs the broken handle into the shark. He feels it go in, knows it’s sharp, and pushes it in harder. The shark lets go and sinks. That’s the last one from the group that came. There’s nothing left for them to eat. The old man is exhausted and tastes something strange in his mouth. It has a coppery, sweet smell, and for a moment, he’s scared. But the taste isn’t too strong. He spits into the sea and says, “Eat it, Galano shark. Go dream about killing a person.”