Hooray for Hurley!
Dominick Lucyk
A sweet breeze flowed across the lake. Jake’s nostrils lit up as the cool, natural scents washed over him. And was that… a tinge of something sweet? Someone downwind must have been baking. Cookies… or brownies? What he wouldn’t give for a brownie! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one.
The euphoria the young boy felt from the delightful scent was quickly quashed by his aunt.
“What a wonderful wind! Hurley must be in a great mood today – nothing but blessings all around!”
Jake looked down and rolled his eyes.
He looked down because he would have gotten in all sorts of trouble for rolling his eyes at the mention of Hurley.
“Of course, when is Hurley not in a great mood? He’s just the greatest,” his aunt bleated.
On any average day, the back of Jake’s neck and his eyeballs were sore from pulling off this particular maneuver dozens, if not hundreds, of times. Whether it was his aunt, the grumpy old woman at the ration distribution line, the old man who ran the fishery Jake swept floors at, or anyone else… it seemed all they ever wanted to talk about was Hurley.
Hurley this, Hurley that. It’s like the guy was some kind of a… well, Jake didn’t have a word for it. They just seemed to think awfully highly of the fellow. But Jake had never actually met Hurley. And people who had met him were few and far between – and usually treated with a sense of reverence and awe just for having shaken hands or exchanged a quick word with Hurley.
Jake was a lot more interested in learning about the world around him, the people he knew. Every single day, he would have questions. Why couldn’t he go out alone for a walk on Gold Dust Road? Why could he only get bread and maybe some beans from the ration line, and furthermore, why wasn’t he allowed to eat any of the fish from the fishery? Why did they have to turn the lights off at exactly 8 p.m. every night? What was in that finely decorated glass bottle that Aunt Gertie drank greedily from, most every night? Why, why, why?
He never got an answer. Well, never an answer that satisfied him, at least.
It was inevitably something to do with Hurley.
Everybody in little Cascade, Idaho, seemed to say the same things. The weather’s good? Thanks, Hurley! The weather’s bad? Well, it could be worse – at least we have Hurley! Little Jimmy got an A on his test? Great – better write a letter to Hurley and let him know! Little Billy failed his test? No rations for two days… but it could have been so much worse, if not for Hurley!
Walking home was often a chore for Jake. He’d be strolling along Sawyer Street on a decently busy day – maybe 30 or 40 people out and about, heading to whatever place they needed to be. But all of a sudden, a chant would break out.
Hooray for Hurley!
Hooray for Hurley!
Hooray, hooray, Hurley, HURLEY!
When that happened, you had to stop and join in. If you didn’t? Well… say goodbye to your rations for a couple of days, at best. That was bad enough – your stomach rumbling, feeling weak, feeling so hungry that you were tempted to grab a raw fish from the shop and just scarf it back, ignoring the slimy, rubbery feel in your mouth and relishing in the scant few calories you’d gain, consequences be damned.
But even worse than that?
The looks… the whispers.
If you were silent, everybody who just loved Hurley, thought that you didn’t love him. And even if they didn’t say it outright to your face, you could tell. Somehow, that was worse than anything else. Everybody just knowing.
The thing is, it shouldn’t have been a problem. Everybody loved Hurley.
Everybody except for Jake.
He didn’t have anything against Hurley… how could he? He’d never met the guy. Sure, he’d listened in as Aunt Gertie had breathlessly phoned in to the Hurley Hotline… the noises she made while listening were… uncomfortable for her young nephew. Jake knew what Hurley looked like… it seemed like he was on the cover of every newspaper and magazine, and that’s not even mentioning the giant mural right on Skyline Drive. It was gargantuan – at least 15 times taller than Jake’s teenage body, emblazoned with every detail of Hurley’s face. The chiseled, masculine jaw… the longer-than-average, lighter-than-average brown hair… the straighter-than-average smile, complete with whiter-than-average teeth. Jake hated it – it cut off his view of the lake, and birds that sat on it were likely to have rocks thrown at them for disrespecting Hurley.
But the point is, Jake didn’t know Hurley. None of the people of Cascade really knew him either. And yet, he seemed to be the center point of their existence, the beacon to which everyone was drawn.
It was all very puzzling. And while Jake loved to figure out a puzzle, this one seemed to have no solution.
“Yes… Aunt Gertie… a beautiful day.”
“Hooray for Hurley, little Jakey!”
Jake hated it when she called him that. He wasn’t little… thirteen years old, and he was already taller than at least half of the men at the fishery.
“Yes… Hooray… for Hurley.”
Jake tried not to grit his teeth. Thanks to the beautiful weather and the sweet-smelling breeze, he was in a good enough mood that he managed to keep a straight face and an unclenched jaw.
The pair continued to walk in relative silence. Aunt Gertie would prod Jake for a response to something they’d stumble upon: a Hurley T-shirt available in one of the few shops still open in Cascade, the Hurley mug being drunk from by customers at the town’s only café (complete with outdoor seating – really, a charming place), the like. Jake would respond as minimally as he could. His mind was swimming with questions, as usual… but by now, he’d learned not to ask, especially when he was with Aunt Gertie.
Why was it so much warmer this year than the last few?
Why were their hauls of fish so much smaller than usual?
Why, why, why?
Jake’s mood had begun to sour, as it usually did when he had to spend time alone with his aunt. Aunt Gertie, on the other hand, seemed as chipper as usual.
And that afternoon, she’d only get more and more chipper. So chipper that you might just be able to feed wood through her and wind up with a haul of finely chopped mulch.
A boy, perhaps two or three years younger than Jake, suddenly came into sight, sprinting onto the path that Jake and Gertie were treading along. He was wearing shabby clothes (well… who had nice clothes these days?) – ripped-up jeans, a dusty black T-shirt, and a surprisingly clean and well-preserved Irish paddy cap atop his head. That particular style had become popular after Hurley had donned one for a few weeks – a gift after a visit to Europe. Jake would have loved to visit Europe… but he’d never even left Idaho. He didn’t even know how you could get that far away.
The young boy stopped as he passed the pair (including our protagonist,) huffing for breath.
In a high-pitched voice, he screeched, his vocal cords flapping wildly and cracking:
“HURLEY’S COMING!”
Then, he sprinted off in the direction that Jake and Gertie had come. The two stared, puzzled. For once, it was Gertie asking the question.
“What?”
Jake shrugged his shoulders, and motioned that they should continue on their walk.
They did so, but Gertie was clearly agitated and distracted. What could it mean? Hurley was… coming?
As they neared the small outdoor market by the town’s medical centre, the pair realized that the small, excited boy was not an exception. The usually subdued market was bustling with activity. A chaotic cacophony of voices competed for attention. The people, all covered with a layer of dust, spatters of fish guts, or both, shoved and pushed, grabbing for newspapers. While they were certainly treating each other with a lack of manners and common courtesy, none seemed to mind too much ‒ they were all in a state of such rapture that an elbow to the gut, a hat torn off and flung to the ground, or a gouged-out eye simply couldn’t bother them.
Without hesitation, Gertie rushed forward to join the melee. Jake held back and observed.
Why?
It didn’t take long to become clear. As the throng scrabbled over newspapers, Jake caught glimpses here and there of the front page. As usual, adorned with Hurley’s handsome visage. But the headline?
In all caps. Not just italicized. Not just bolded. Not just underlined. Not just in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. No, the majesty of the occasion required all four, and, to the good people of Cascade, even that wasn’t enough. No trick of script could mark the momentousness of this moment for their town.
HURLEY COMING TO CASCADE NEXT TUESDAY!!!
Despite his boredom and puzzlement at Hurley in general, Jake actually felt a bit of the crowd’s enthusiasm rub off on him.
He allowed himself a small grin.
Hey, if nothing else…
The teenager mused internally.
If nothing else, I might get a chance to see what the big fuss is all about. Who knows? Maybe I’ll mean it next time I shout ‘Hooray for Hurley!’
–
The beautiful weather kept up for the remainder of the week, and even through the weekend – an unseasonably nice stretch for this early in spring. But Jake didn’t have time to enjoy it. Nor did anyone in Cascade. They were all far too busy hustling and bustling about, making sure everything was perfect for Hurley’s arrival.
Jake’s initial dab of enthusiasm quickly wore off as his workload increased – threefold, perhaps even four. Activity at the fishery had exploded, but the direction of everyone’s efforts had been shifted in a completely different direction. No more were they rushing to fill orders from the rich businessmen in Boise and High Valley’s Mormon compound. Actually, those businessmen had been temporarily banned from entry into Cascade. The Boise boys understood ‒ Hurley would stop by to visit them the following week, and they knew all-too-well the importance of dropping everything else to give him a great reception. The Mormons, though? They were ticked off. Jake hadn’t realized it for most of his life, but they seemed to be the only people who weren’t head-over-heels for Hurley.
Ah well. If Jake wasn’t wowed by the upcoming visit, he’d intercept the next Mormon he saw and ask him for some insight.
As for the fishery, it had mostly been converted. Instead of a space dedicated to dragging each bit of organic life possible out of Lake Cascade, it now resembled something akin to an art studio. The painter of the town’s gigantic Hurley mural supervised the dozens of bustling laborers. He was a thin little man with a thick neck, and a bulbous, balloon-like head. His uneven features made him seem unbalanced, as if the slightest breeze off of the lake could topple him over to crack his gargantuan head on the hard ground below and spill out the pink, mushy contents within. However, he moved with deft grace among the men as they worked. Further filling out his features was a wide pair of waxed mustachios, each jet black and extending nearly to the point of his slim shoulders.
His name?
Fred.
Fred set the boys towards creating a piece that showcased the spirit of their town, while properly venerating their hero, Hurley. It was to be a 1:1 recreation of the famous portrait he had already so skillfully painted. But instead of such a simple and common medium as paint, it would be woven together with fishing nets, fishing line, and… well… fish.
So as not to smell, the fish had to be freeze-dried, a painstaking process that took far more electricity than the town would have had to spare during normal, precedented times. The flesh then had to be handled with extreme care, so as not to break from a careless touch. Once assembled into the rough visage of Hurley, Fred carefully worked out the details. He seemed to need no plan or blueprint ‒ over the course of days, the formless, forty-foot mound of fragile meat gradually took the shape of a gray, scaly likeness of Hurley’s face. From there, Fred had the fishermen reinforce the structure with fishing line, carefully poked through each individual piece of fish. Finally, it was roped and mounted to a background of netting.
A masterpiece. A unique, creative monument that would have taken weeks, maybe even months if not for the upcoming visit ‒ done by Sunday.
All that was left was for Fred to pull out his paint buckets and fill in the color of Hurley’s handsome features. By Monday afternoon, it looked majestic.
Thanks to the paint job, it was nearly identical to the mural that already stood on Skyline Drive… but still, majestic in its own right.
As Monday afternoon turned to evening, the villagers became catatonic. Women screamed and fainted. Men fought and beat each other over the head in vicious arguments over who Hurley would like the most. Hungry children took the opportunity to filch Hurley merch from Cascade’s few retail establishments.
Despite all the chaos, a veritable army of cooks, at least 50 strong, slaved away in Cascade’s one-and-only recreational facility: a curling rink, temporarily converted into a giant kitchen. Their task? Prepare a feast fit for a king. No, not something as common or lowly as a king… this was Hurley they would be feeding!
Fish dominated the offerings: roasted whole trout, decorated with bonnets of poached juvenile perch perched upon their heads, the fish’s blank eyes staring out into oblivion. Finely fileted sturgeon, chopped and mixed in with traditional Mormon funeral potatoes, cheese and cream oozing from every crevice of the dish. Soups and stews lined the tables as far as the eye could see – some hot, some cold, some creamy, some frothy… but all letting off the rich aroma of salt and fish.
Even despite the villagers’ collective dedication to Hurley, it took a great amount of restraint to resist filching a few bites here and there.
Tyler Thompson, a hard-working, muscular, bearded, and perpetually hungry man in his late 20’s, succumbed to the temptation and was found chewing on a bread crust during his five-minute break from kneading dough. He was subsequently dragged to the lake by a mob of quite irritated villagers, encumbered with two large stones securely tied to his ankles, and sent for a swim that would last an eternity.
Several weeks later, the villagers would be reminded of this decision by an unfortunate haul of perch, minnows, and various pieces of Tyler’s rotted corpse. Sales didn’t go well on that particular day.
Well after midnight, the preparations for Hurley’s arrival were complete. Everything had been cooked, everything had been decorated, and extra guards had been posted at both the entrance to the village and along the road from which Hurley and his entourage would be approaching. Rather than the usual shabby spears, not much more than branches with slightly sharp stones affixed to the end, the guards sported regal armor, iron shields bearing a stylized design of a trout, and genuine steel swords. The guards were shocked to see such weapons, so much higher in quality than anything they’d seen before. In hushed tones, the deputy mayor answered their queries with the knowledge that they were concealed somewhere deep in the town hall’s basement, and were only to be taken out and used in times of great need. Bandits were a rarity this far from Boise, anyway. Their primitive spears usually sufficed to repel the occasional small raiding party of two or three rogue Canadian brigands.
On strict orders from the deputy mayor, everyone, save for the guards, was to get a full night’s rest as soon as there was no work to be done. Exhaustion would make the various tasks of hospitality for Hurley more difficult, and, crucially, would make it more difficult for the villagers to appreciate Hurley’s presence. The convoy of horse-drawn carriages was set to arrive in Cascade at 10 o’clock, sharp. That gave everyone ample time to sleep. Of course, nobody, not even the deputy mayor, the exhausted cooks, or the worn-out artisans, was able to sleep. Into the wee hours of the morning, the shabby wooden structures that made up most of the homes in Cascade buzzed with chatter. Everyone was simply too excited for a single wink.
Everyone, that is, except for Jake. He had grown accustomed to tuning out his Aunt Gertie’s chatter, and, after retiring from his work, crashed out nearly instantly as his head hit the bare mattress.
Gertie continued to chatter well into the night, poring over old magazines and newspaper articles featuring Hurley. There was no electricity to illuminate the small television that would have granted her the pleasure of seeing pre-recorded footage of her idol, so the printed material would tide her over until morning.
It would be well worth the wait; she just knew it!
–
For the first time in Jake’s life, he learned what complete silence sounded like.
And what a strange environment for it! Every single villager, all 1,643 of them, stood together, packed shoulder-to-shoulder. The ever-present smell of fish and body odor was worse than it had ever been, but the chatter… it was completely gone. Everyone’s breath stuck in their lungs. No wind blew and no birds chirped, as if nature itself felt the need to respect the gravity of this moment.
Hurley had just spoken for the first time.
“People of Cadillac, Idaho! I greet you and confer my love and blessings to every one of your beautiful, beautiful souls!”
What followed was a lengthy pause. Hurley looked down at the podium behind which he stood.
Most everyone’s heart was quickening from excitement at what he would say next. Jake was merely annoyed that Hurley had gotten the name of their town wrong, though nobody else seemed to have noticed.
Thirty seconds… not a sound was heard.
The silence was broken as a young boy coughed. The silence was broken a second time with a loud crack as the boy’s father smacked him across the back of the head.
The silence returned.
Another thirty seconds. Hurley cleared his throat and continued. His handsome face was set into a straight, serious expression.
“As you no doubt know, I’ve come to meet my fans across the great Confederation of Washington, Idaho, and Southern British Columbia! You’re all so kind to lavish your attention upon me – and it brings me great pain on a daily basis that I’m not able to see your beautiful faces and hear your beautiful voices. And so…”
He paused again, grabbed the stack of papers that had been placed on his podium, and threw them into the air with a dramatic flourish. The lines in his cheeks lifted upwards and he bared his bleach-white teeth in a charming smile.
“We shall have no agenda today or tomorrow! I’ll simply live among you – hearing your concerns, basking in your presence, and otherwise helping in any way that I can!”
A roar the likes of which Jake had never experienced rocked the little town of Cadillac (formerly known as Cascade.) His eardrums felt as if they were trying to escape the tight, narrow canal within which they were confined. His entire body shook – pinkie toe quaking against its neighbor, molar tussling against canine, pancreas agitating against… whichever organ is nearest to the pancreas. The cheers and screams grew and grew until it was unbearable.
Hurley gracefully raised a finger to his lips, and the noise again ceased.
“Well, folks… why don’t we grab a bite to eat?”
Far more than a bite was consumed, that fine lunchtime. Truly the most magnificent meal that was partaken of in the short history of Cadillac, Idaho.
‒
The next day came, and Hurley could barely catch a wink of rest. He sat upon a lush throne, which had been carried into the center of town by a pair of wheezing young servants. The seat was covered in a purple drapery, and so nobody could see its golden (and extremely heavy) majesty. On occasion, he would take a minute or two to indulge in a delicate sip of cool cherry wine or nibble at a piece of sourdough covered in creamy camembert. He sat in the center of town square, wearing a microphone so all could hear his voice. It took some time, but at the pokes and prods of Hurley’s guard, the people managed to form an orderly line that stretched for nearly half a mile.
And what did good ol’ Hurley do?
He simply listened to concerns, complaints, quibbles, and gripes. Well, that had been his goal – make the people truly realize that he was there for them, that he would do anything and everything within his power to make their lives better. But really, anyone who stepped up with the intent of asking Hurley for advice was quickly stifled by his charming smile, and all negative thoughts left their mind. What came forth, then, was simply a stream of babbling praises.
“Hurley… I… you’re… so… handsome!” squeaked Jeff, a burly and bearded construction worker. Normally his wife, Janet, would have been annoyed at such a comment, and concerned about what it would mean for their love life. But she, too, was enthralled.
“Hurley… I… you’re… so… beautiful!” squeaked Janet.
Hurley simply smiled, thanked them, and waved a hand for them to move along.
“Hurley… why… are you so… great?” said Ginny Thompson, mother of the recently deceased Tyler. Any grief she felt at her boy’s untimely lynching evaporated instantly upon coming so close to Hurley.
Again, Hurley flashed his pearly whites.
“I’m nothing without the great people of Caddington, my dear.”
And so, Cadillac was once again unintentionally renamed, and the people of Caddington scarcely noticed until deliveries from the Mormon compound mysteriously dried up. An orderly people, they simply wouldn’t deliver a package to an improper address and insisted every villager scrupulously update their details.
“Hurley… why can’t I go down to the city without fear of being attacked by a brigade of murderous Canadians? And why do I go hungry so often, even though I spend all day working around hundreds of fish? And why… why… well, why don’t we start there?”
For the second day in a row, Caddington fell into utter silence. Who… just who… who could POSSIBLY think to speak to Hurley like that?
It was Jake, of course. His tone hadn’t been confrontational. The stresses of the past few days alone had sapped any of his will to be upset. No, he was, rather, quite simply curious. He’d been waiting his whole life for someone to answer his questions. Inevitably, they had all pivoted to talk about Hurley. So, Hurley himself had to be the answer… right?
It was sound logic on young Jake’s part. But sadly, the citizens of Caddington weren’t well-studied.
Those in earshot went ballistic. The orderly line broke, and a dozen of Jake’s beefy co-workers from the fishery descended upon him, intent on horrific violence, the type that would be simply too disturbing to put to paper.
But before the first barrage of blows could land, Hurley barked.
“STOP! Unhand that boy AT ONCE!”
The fishermen froze. Well, all except for one, who had been winding up for a savage roundhouse kick. He lost his balance and fell, face-flat, onto the ground. He received a broken nose for his trouble, and was henceforth referred to as “Crooked Nose Joe” by all of his rather creatively-bankrupt colleagues.
The rest of the crowd was also frozen, hanging upon Hurley’s word.
Satisfied they wouldn’t be a further bother, Hurley directed his attention at Jake, turned off his microphone, and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Boy… what’s your name?”
“Jake… Jake McLaughlin, sir.”
“Young Jake… Jakob is alright, I hope?”
Jake nodded. Hurley stood from his purple throne, and, with three great strides, descended to the boy. Gingerly, he bent over. While Jake was tall for his age, Hurley was a veritable giant. The bigger man leaned close to Jake’s right ear, and whispered:
“Jakob… you’re the kind of young man who wants answers, right?”
Hurley’s voice almost sounded hungry. It would have intimidated Jake, were he not so excited to finally talk to someone who didn’t slough him off the moment he opened his mouth.
Jake nodded. Hurley straightened up and grinned the widest grin he ever had.
In a slightly louder voice, still inaudible to anyone but Jake, he continued.
“Alright, let’s do it. But you’re going to need to be patient… got it? And no matter what, keep cool. Don’t lose your head… alright?”
Jake did not entirely understand, but he nodded anyway.
Smiling in approval, Hurley switched his microphone back on. He checked to make sure that he and Jake were both visible on the newly-installed giant television screen in the town’s central square. Then, in the style of a great leader making a pronouncement that would define an epoch, Hurley spoke.
“This young man… this Jakob McLaughlin…”
He paused dramatically.
“He is to be treasured! He is to be nourished and challenged and taught to grow! For you see…”
Another pause, even more dramatic.
“This young Jakob, he is just. Like. Me!”
Hurley leaned over again, and planted a kiss firmly on Jake’s forehead.
The crowd erupted and, again, advanced on Jake. His fisherman colleagues had, less than two minutes ago, been intent on murdering the young man. Now, they (save for Crooked Nose Joe, still nursing his injury) ran forward and gripped Jake in a loving embrace. They raised him up on their shoulders and began to chant.
“Hurley! Hurley! Hurley!”
But Hurley wasn’t satisfied. With an amplified, booming voice, he began a new chant:
“Jakob! Jakob! Jakob!”
The rest of the day passed by in a blur. It was filled with congratulations, offerings of food and money, and even kisses from nearly every woman in Caddington. The latter would have been supremely enjoyable, but the smell of fish wafting from a woman’s lips was somehow stronger and more repulsive to Jake than the busiest day at the fishery.
All the while, Hurley looked on approvingly. He didn’t exactly take the back seat – Hurley was still Hurley, after all. The people continued to pepper him with their affections… but for once, it was a shared burden.
It wasn’t until, hours later when Jake had exhaustedly collapsed into his bed, did he realize that Hurley hadn’t answered a single one of his questions.
Oh well, the boy thought. I guess I’ll have to learn some of that patience he was talking about.
‒
Over the next two months, time passed strangely for Jake. On one hand, it felt as if 60 days were basically the blink of an eye. He talked so much, shook so many hands, ate until his stomach nearly burst, kissed dozens of young women (after badgering his new assistant, Marcus, to provide oral hygiene kits for all of his female admirers) … and yet, looking back, he struggled to pick out specific details. Had he retired to his chambers with Sophie or Katie on the night he had given his first speech? Had he stuffed himself on smoked salmon or caviar that particular evening? He couldn’t say for sure.
But at the same time, time crawled by. Jake was always in anticipation, waiting… yearning… wanting more from Hurley.
The little town of Cascade (Jake had seen fit to restore its original name) had been blessed by Hurley’s continued presence. While the gaggle of guards and publicists who surrounded Hurley had objected strenuously (other than Jake, they seemed the only ones capable of speaking up to the man), he couldn’t be persuaded to get back on the road and fulfil his duties in visiting the many other towns and cities that made up the Confederation of Washington, Idaho, and Southern British Columbia. No, he’d stay put in Cascade and… well, Hurley wasn’t exactly clear about what he would be doing, but it involved Jake.
Over the course of the two months, Jake saw Hurley every day. They’d hold public audiences together, which never amounted to more than the two of them receiving heaps of praise. They’d visit the fishery and provide encouragement and advice to the hard-working men there. Of course, Hurley knew nothing about the fishing business and Jake had only really swept the floors, so they didn’t have much of use to add. They’d knock on doors, surprising and delighting whoever lived there with a few minutes of their precious time.
But through it all, Jake rarely got to spend time alone with Hurley. And that was what left him constantly craving more.
On the occasions that the two left their staff outside and retired together into Jake’s private chambers (newly built in the town hall and lavishly furnished), they would simply talk, and Jake got to see a side of Hurley that nobody else ever had.
The bravado, the grace, the charming smile… they weren’t gone, but they lessened somewhat. There was a tension to Hurley that Jake hadn’t noticed until seeing it evaporate when they met in private. Still, Jake never really felt uncomfortable around Hurley… rather, he was usually unsure about what to say or do.
So, Jake defaulted to what came naturally to him: asking questions. The results were, without exception, mixed.
“Hurley, you have to know: why are the roads so unsafe these days? Sure, it’s not too bad around Cascade, but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s gone all the way to Boise, Seattle, or Vancouver without at least losing an arm or a leg,” Jake had asked in one of their first meetings.
Hurley had looked at the boy with a wistful, sad smile.
“Well, Jakob, because free will exists. As long as people have the ability to make choices, some will make the wrong choices. And it burns me up, hurts my heart, it really does, Jakob… but that’s just the cruel world we live in. And as long as things work that way… the strong will get what they want from the weak. But, my young friend, think about this: can they really be blamed? If the choice is between an empty stomach and a full one, who in their right mind would spare an old woman with a fat purse? It’s not too different from how you and your friends make a living off of that charming little fishery! The fish are weak, you’re strong. Bang, they’re dead; you get to have dinner.”
Hurley leaned back with a satisfied smile, folding his hands into his lap. Jake took a moment to process the speech.
“Well… I guess… but we don’t even usually get to eat the fish. It all goes… somewhere else, I guess,” Jake replied.
Hurley let out a chuckle and slapped his young charge on the shoulder.
“My point, exactly! Strength doesn’t just mean your body, after all. And that’s where men like you and I come in. Do you know why I picked you out of the crowd that day? When there were a thousand people fawning over everything I had to say… I wanted to stay and talk to you?”
Jake pondered for a moment.
“Well, I can’t say for sure, but… I mean, I haven’t really met anyone else who wants to think about anything. And maybe… it’s the same for you?”
“Not a bad start, Jakob, but there’s so much more to it… so, so much more! But oh, it’s just so tiresome, the work we do,” Hurley huffed. He stood up from his seat, and planted his hand on Jake’s shoulder in a fatherly embrace.
“That’s enough for tonight, I think. I… think, you see? Hopefully I’ve given you plenty to think about, Jakob! Have a great sleep and remember: keep cool and don’t lose your head!”
And with that, Hurley strode off, set to retire to his luxurious temporary residence – a cozy, heated log cabin built in haste by the few construction workers available in Cascade.
Most of their conversations went the same way. Jake would ask something, be given a monologue, and be left to pick up the pieces by himself. Sure, he still wasn’t getting any real answers, but…
It was a hell of a lot better than nothing.
‒
Days passed. Weeks passed. Even months, slow as they had a tendency to be, continued to pass, without much of note happening. The new routine that Hurley had brought into Jake’s life held firm. It was such a radical difference from the life of strife he had struggled through, and yet it didn’t take long to start feeling normal.
What soon became clear is that Hurley had big plans for Jake. Never before had Hurley taken someone under his wing to such a degree: there were whispers all around town (and around the Confederation of Washington, Idaho, and Southern British Columbia: after all, Jake’s face was appearing in the newspaper alongside Hurley, and he’d even been tasked with recording lines for the Hurley Hotline) that young Jake was being groomed to be Hurley’s successor.
No matter what might happen in the future, though, Jake soon began to adopt many of Hurley’s traits. He quickly grew in confidence and wit, and walked around with a knowing, yet not smug, smile. He kept cool and calm at all times, perhaps even more so than Hurley (who was prone to fits of spontaneity). Men who were four times Jake’s age wanted to seek his advice. Women who were five times Jake’s age (and who had lost their husbands to roving bandit bands) wanted to marry him. Children who were Jake’s age quietly seethed in jealous rage, but quickly forgot those feelings upon hearing Jake speak.
Finally, it was time for Jake to test his newfound skills in leadership and inspiration. For the first time since Hurley’s arrival, the two would leave Cascade.
It was to be a relatively short trip: on horse-drawn carriage, just shy of a week to get to Boise. There, Jake would take the podium at Boise State University – alone. The assignment shouldn’t have been a difficult one: he didn’t have to say anything much of substance, and he knew the people were on his side. Still, even though he’d learned much in the art of charisma from Hurley, he still felt woefully underprepared to deliver any real advice.
“Don’t worry about it, Jakob. Just do whatever you think I would do, and it’ll work out fine!”
Hurley’s words brought some measure of comfort, but Jake still felt a queasy sensation in his stomach as their convoy set out. The rickety wheels of the carriage bounced along the rough, ancient road numbered 55 (though why it had that number, Jake knew not… something to ask Hurley, he supposed) as they left town. Every citizen of Cascade had gathered to say their farewells. They had grown used to Hurley’s presence, and had gained a new love and appreciation for Jakob. To see the pair head off brought some to tears. Still, all tried to hold a brave face as they waved the pair off, accompanied only by their entourage of protectors, organizers, and generalized opportunists.
Jake, for once, felt a sense of love for the town he’d grown up in. A small tear came to his eye.
They set off.
‒
It was a long trip. Really long.
The first day, Jake peppered Hurley with questions. The older man was quieter than usual, and seemed contemplative, even peaceful. Perhaps the countryside agreed with him. Jake could understand why: he’d left town before, but had never been exposed to so much open space for so long. The rolling hills and tufts of short, stubby grass were nothing he’d never seen before… but it was strange to realize just how big their state was. Of the three states that made up their Confederation, Idaho was often seen as the least significant. If it ever made national headlines, it was thanks either to Hurley or some scandal (like when the Mormon bishop of Meridian was exposed as lying about his marital status: he had only three wives, not the seven he had previously reported.) And yet, through hours of travel they’d already passed by so much, and there was so much more to go. They stopped only occasionally to relieve themselves. Jake was surprised that a man of Hurley’s dignity seemed to have no problem going in a ditch off the side of the road.
Jake was starting to learn the meaning of the word “perspective.” Well, that was mostly because Hurley had used the word in passing, and Jake had asked him for a definition. But once he knew what it meant, Jake realized that his perspective was truly growing.
There were few settled areas along the way to stop and rest, so Hurley and Jake both slept in the carriage that evening while staff members continued to drive the horses. The staff slept in shifts so as to keep themselves fresh and ready for anything.
The second day rolled around. It was uneventful, except that at one point, Jake saw a wiry, vicious-looking mammal off the side of the road. It was brown and white, with long, deadly claws upon its front paws. At the time, Hurley was resting his chin upon his fist and gazing upward at the sky, so Jake shook his shoulder.
“Hurley! Hurley! What… what is that thing?”
Hurley took a quick glance.
“Hmm? I… well, I haven’t seen one in some time, but I believe that’s what’s known as a wolverine. A real brute, Jakob… it could tear your guts out in 15 seconds flat if it wanted to.”
Jake squinted and craned his neck, trying to keep his eyes on the wolverine for as long as he could while the carriage continued onwards.
“R… really? But… it’s so small, and… kind of cute, too, don’t you think?”
Hurley chuckled.
“I wouldn’t be too worried. They’re usually afraid of people, and there aren’t many of them around these days. Not after… well, actually, it’s a long story, and you have more important things to learn about, anyway.”
“But… Hurley, we have all sorts of time out here on the road… please could you tell me?”
“Remember what I told you, right? Patience, and don’t lose your head,” chided Hurley.
Jake tried to look contrite, but he was so excited from the sight of the wolverine that he was bouncing in his seat. Of course, Hurley couldn’t tell any difference, as they were both bouncing from the rough road already.
Hurley again set his concrete chin onto his large, sculped fist and looked up, contemplating the pale blue void that was the sky.
‒
The carriages had been making good time. On the third day, just before sunset, they reached Horseshoe Bend. It was one of the only occupied towns left between Cascade and Boise. Jake looked over at Hurley with a hungry expression.
“Hurley, please… can we stop here? Stretch our legs, maybe eat at a local restaurant? I’m sure the people would be really happy to see you!”
“And you, Jakob. Remember, you’ve been in the papers just as much as I have.”
“Right, yeah. But anyway… please?”
“No need to beg, my friend! I had planned on it, anyway. There’s not much for food here, but I’m sure if we drop in for a visit to one of the kind townsfolk, they’ll be happy to scrounge something up for us. You can see that river off to the side, yes?”
Jake took a look. Yes, that was a river. And if there was one thing he knew about bodies of water, it was that they contained fish. He’d already grown sick of the dried preserves they’d been gnawing on for the past three days, and his stomach rumbled at the thought of a hot trout. His mouth watered as he fantasized about the sumptuous meal.
Suddenly, Jake was snapped out of his daydream by a surprising sound. It was something like uhhhhEEEEEEEwooooooooh. First, it was just one. Then, a chorus of uhhhhEEEEEEEwoooooooohs began. A few, then many. Jake covered his ears and looked at Hurley with a shocked expression.
Hurley was quick to act. He grabbed Jake by the back of the neck and shoved him into a laying position, concealed by the sides of the carriage. The older man’s eyes darted around, surveying the landscape, hoping desperately not to see the shape that he knew was heralded by that awful, awful sound.
Hurley’s hopes were dashed. In a hushed, hurried whisper, he said to himself (though Jake miraculously overheard):
“War moose. And not just one. A herd.”
He screamed to his carriage drivers, and the three other cramped carriages accompanying them:
“WAR MOOSE! Pick up speed and be ready for evasive maneuvers!”
Upon issuing the order, the carriage began to shake violently. Jake tried to poke his head up to see what was going on, but Hurley roughly shoved it back down. The braying of the moose now sounded even louder, and was accompanied by the thundering of hooves. How many… Jake couldn’t tell.
“Jakob! It is of the utmost importance that you not. Be. Seen!”
At that, Jake’s surprise turned to terror. He had never seen Hurley like this before: though he maintained some composure, his mentor was genuinely scared.
“How… nobody’s used war moose since the Saskatchewan Siege of 2182… this… this,” Hurley mumbled to himself and trailed off.
The horses powering their carriages strained against their reins, reacting to the now-vicious whipping of their drivers. They picked up speed, and Jake felt as if several of his internal organs would switch places from the vicious shaking.
Then, all of a sudden, a halting screech. Jake slammed forward, his left side crunching against the front end of the seat. He let out a wheezing grunt. Then, all was silent. No more braying from the moose, no more clopping of hooves. The silence was broken by a pained whinny from one of the horses.
Jake risked a quick look up at Hurley, without moving from his concealed position. His mentor’s face was bone-white. Then, the teenager heard a booming voice.
“Well, what do we got here, eh? Seems we found us a few pretty rich folk! You hosers know what the drill’s all a-boat, eh? Everything you got, or we chop yer fuckin’ heads off and use em’ for pucks!”
Jake couldn’t see anything, and it’s a damn good thing he couldn’t, for it was a grotesque sight indeed. At least 40 Canadians were mounted upon their war moose. One blocked their immediate path forward: the others were arranged in a circular formation, cutting off any hope of escape. The steeds were adorned with shabby armor: nothing more than a few plates of maple wood, stitched together with netting salvaged from old hockey rinks. Leather caps adorned the heads of each moose, their vicious antlers sticking out from crudely cut holes in the fabric. What the caps were supposed to protect from was anyone’s guess. The animals looked vicious, and the men were even worse. Without exception, they wore patchy plaid jackets which, through decades of conquest, had grown stained from mud and blood. The Canadians also sported shabby hockey helmets and gloves covered in holes. They brandished brutal weapons, the likes of which Hurley and his guards had never seen before. They were long wooden sticks, with a pair of rusty blades attached via a chain at the end. Of course, had Hurley or his guards ever seen a hockey game, they would know exactly which implement had been used to craft these abominable weapons of war.
“Jakob. Do. Not. Move. Do. Not. Make. A. Sound,” whispered Hurley. Then, he stood up straight and pointed a finger at the lead Canadian.
“We are free men, travelling in our own country! You are foreign invaders! Move along instantly and I will forgive this transgression. If not, my men will skewer the lot of you into Canadian bacon!” Hurley projected his voice, and, even through his fear, Jake was extremely impressed. Obviously, Hurley’s talent with words extended to more than just soothing the anxieties of simple village people.
The lead Canadian was slightly taken aback, but then he let out a chuckle, which was echoed by his entire entourage.
“Sorry, bud, but it don’t work that way, eh? You got one more chance before we turn you hosers into flapjacks – “
The man abruptly stopped his speech as an arrow pierced his eye, the sharp metal end digging into the pinkish meat of his brain – it was as good a reason as any to stop a speech.
Hurley was responsible for the missile. With lightning-quick reflexes, he had grabbed a bow from a hidden compartment near his feet, almost whacking Jake’s head in the process. He strung it and loose the arrow within just a few seconds. Before the other Canadians could react, he shot several more arrows into the crowd. He instantly killed two men, wounded one more in the arm, and hit a moose, causing it to buck its rider off. The rider fell to the ground and his spine split with a snap.
Hurley’s guards took the opportunity to jump off their carriages, brandishing long spears. Their efforts were valiant: stabbing, spinning, dodging the brutal hockey stick sickles. The Canadians, though, were no slouches. They had the advantage of experience: they’d fought dozens of spear-wielders, but their bizarre weapons were unfamiliar to Hurley’s guards. They had the advantage of height, perched atop their durable steeds. And perhaps most importantly, they had the savage temperament that only a Canadian with three or fours beers in him could hope to match.
Hurley’s guards stood no chance. In all, they managed to slay 11 Canadians before they were all sliced, trampled, or beheaded. The once-beautiful landscape was littered with unidentifiable chunks of human flesh, and a river of blood flowed through what was once dry land.
All this time, Hurley had been assisting from a distance with his bow, but once his guards had fallen, the convoy advanced on the final carriage. Everyone, save for Hurley, Jake, and the remaining Canadians, was dead.
Slowing their moose to a trot, two Canadians pulled up in front of the carriage. Hurley reached for another arrow, but, hands shaking, fumbled. It clattered on the seat next to Jake.
“You’d best drop that bow, now. Yer fuckin’ done, bud,” a Canadian growled.
Hurley had no words left. Subtly, he reached his long arm down and gently stroked Jake’s hair, out of sight of his adversaries. Then, without words, he spat in the direction of the savage man riding a gigantic beast.
Also without words, the Canadian lowered his hockey stick sickle and, in one fluid motion, removed Hurley’s head from his shoulders. The head’s expression was still stoic as it rolled to the floor of the carriage and stared Jake in the eyes.
And so, it turned out that, in death, Hurley couldn’t follow the advice he had so often given Jake: don’t lose your head.
In turn, Jake couldn’t follow the final piece of advice Hurley had given him: he rocked in agony, and let out a squealing stream of sobs. Quite the racket.
His final thought?
Why?
Dominick Lucyk
Dominick Lucyk is constantly accosted by ideas swimming through his mind. On occasion, an idea will magically spring, fully-formed, into a story. When he's not writing, he enjoys staring at wildlife, starting arguments with strangers, and word-based board games. He can be found online at dominicklucyk.com.