Eventide

50 Short Story

The boy sits on the edge of the river, pant cuffs rolled up to his knees. The dog, Climate, sits beside him. Its tongue hangs out the left side of its mouth, and its teeth are brown with rot. This does not bother the boy, nor does the dirt that has dried onto its tail or the chiggers that cling to the scruff of its neck. He buries his small hand in Climate’s too-long fur, grips tightly to keep the dog from jumping into the river. Normally the boy would let Climate free, but the sun is setting and the current moves fast and it makes the boy uneasy.

He looks at the dog. “Not today, buddy.” The dog watches him, pants, sneezes. “Maybe tomorrow, yeah?” Still Climate watches him. The boy flicks a mosquito off his arm and adjusts his fishing cap and lets the dog lick his chin. The dog is medium-sized with light brown fur and brown eyes and socked white paws. He is twelve, perhaps thirteen years old, older than the boy, but his age does not show. Maybe just in the gray clouding his eyes, the short gray bits of fur around his mouth. The boy has just turned eleven.

Behind them are tall trees and bushes and flat dirt ground. Sometimes Climate finds a rabbit and the boy will let him chase it through the small woods until he either catches it or tires himself out and returns to lay at the boy’s feet.

“Go find a rabbit, go on.” He pushes at the dog’s legs, points to the trees. Climate knows the word by now. He gets up and disappears instantly, but the boy can hear the dog displacing the leaves of the short bushes and so he is not worried. The boy turns back to the river and the orange sky slowly dimming. His mother will be expecting them home soon. She does not understand, though he has tried to explain, that this is the most important time and they can’t just leave in the middle of it or they will miss the whole thing.

“You can’t just go during the day?” she used to say. “Or for the sunrise?”

And the boy wanted to laugh at this. “It can’t be for the sunrise. That’s not how it works.”

Eventually she decided that it would be okay if Climate went with him, and they came home as soon as it was over, if the boy promised his mother he wouldn’t get caught up looking at the stars or picking wild mushrooms or letting Climate get lost chasing rabbits. But it was okay about the rabbits because Climate knew the woods, and they were always home in time.

The river moves fast and loud, and it splashes up on the boy’s feet and the water is cold, a bad sign for it being only August. Still there is the warm night air and the mosquitoes buzzing, still the summer has not yet completely died.

For a while, the woods behind him are quiet, and he listens for Climate. Hears nothing but the water. He pulls his fishing cap low over his ears and stands up, the rolled cuffs of his pants uncurling with the movement. He does not call the dog’s name, walks with feet bare against the dirt. This section of woods is familiar to him, so he does not need the light. He reaches a patch of ground, a few feet across, where there are no trees and he stands quiet and does not call the dog’s name. Several minutes pass and with them the last remaining bits of day. The boy does not worry. He whistles once, takes off his fishing cap, lays it on the ground. Then he turns and walks home.