“Hi Mel! Hi Stuart!” From a few yards away, Peter was waving from a picnic blanket that he shared with his parents. The boy’s golden cat-spirit was with nearby, pouncing on imaginary rodents in the grass. The two journalists turned to wave at the boy.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen a cat-spirit outside before,” Mel remarked. “I wonder how common that is here?”
Stuart looked thoughtful. “I have no idea. Too bad you can’t capture them on film.” He unbuttoned his leather jacket. “It’s a bit brisk out here. I have a hunch that the water is going to be quite cold.”
“All the more reason to win,” she said. “The faster your time, the faster you can get out of the water.”
“You have a point.” He shucked his jacket revealing a black t-shirt with a pixilated logo that said “Wetware Co.” and tossed it too her. Mel caught it with one hand and folded it over her arm. “But I’m not here to win. As you said earlier, I’m here for the experience.” He took off his glasses and handed them to her.
Carefully, she put them in her tote bag so they wouldn’t get lost. Under lowered lashes, she watched him pull off his t-shirt, revealing sinewy muscle and skin lightly dusted with dark hair. “And you were saying before that you didn’t really want to do this swimming competition. Although with those ladies from the Bingo Club around, I guess I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Well, thanks to you, they’re preoccupied with something, or shall I say someone, else now. I’m all yours.”
“Oh?”
He gave her a saucy grin, unzipped his jeans and pulled them off.
She suddenly laughed. “That’s real cute, Stuart. Swimming trunks with cats?”
“Why not? It’s no more ridiculous than hearts or smiley faces.”
Mel shook her head. “Get your butt over there before they start the race without you.”
* * *
The line of men on the far shore of Derry Pond, was to say the least, diverse. Short, tall, thin, stout, hairy, hairless. Stuart stretched momentarily to warm his muscles. The air was cool—not really his ideal temperature. He blinked and peered covertly at the other men and silently cursed himself for being somewhat blind without his glasses. There were a few muscle-bound men who would most likely beat him. Construction workers and farm boys. He spotted the long-haired painter a couple paces away. Apparently he had somehow managed to get away from the Bingo Club to get to the starting line.
Soon, everyone was lining up at the shore, feet and shoulders tense as they readied to dive into the black pond waters. The spectators stood at the side of the pond, eyes wide, expectant. Some of the bingo ladies hollered and whistled. A small short man stood on a rock near the pond, his hand holding a small gun. He fired it into the air and with a collective splash, the swimmers dove into the pond—some as graceful as arcing fish and others as uncoordinated as a mishandled bowling ball.
The water was cold and heavy. Stuart raised his head taking a breath and with automatic training, his arms moved and his legs kicked. Once in the water, he didn’t care about the other swimmers floundering in splashes and curses. He didn’t care too much about winning either. All he could see was the other shore—without his glasses, it was merely a brown green blur at the edge of the black pond. No one said anything about the type of swimming stroke to use so he did the usual freestyle that he practiced on his time at the pool at home. Straight as a torpedo, legs as propellers, arms to guide him.
Dimly, he registered the other men. Some of them were ahead, some of them behind. He added a bit of energy to his muscles, warming them up despite the cold pond. He shot ahead. Whenever he came up for a breath, the shore seemed a bit closer. In the waters, he could see two figures cutting through the darkness. They weren’t that far ahead though and if he tried, perhaps he could also beat them. But those two men were not ones he recognized. So he kept his pace, making sure he did not get ahead or fall behind.
All too soon, his feet touched the bottom and he took one last heaving breath before he stood up, letting the water stream down his body. He looked back at the pond with a wistful glance. A majority of the men were still floundering in the middle of the pond—they were the ones who were sadly out of shape, the ones who had stayed on the couch drinking beer the rest of the year. A few others were catching up to him, including the painter who was still yet a couple yards from the shoreline.
He felt a hand touch his shoulder. He tensed. Not the Bingo Club again, he prayed. But the hand didn’t feel thick, papery, or weighty. It was light, almost a feathery touch. Was he imagining things? The hand was then released from his shoulder and the fingers slightly caressed his arm, following the path of a drop of water. He hunched his shoulders, trying to suppress a shudder of pleasure.
“You came in third,” said an amused voice close behind him.
He cursed his sudden reaction at Mel’s voice. It’s the damn adrenaline from the swimming race, he berated himself. “I hope you have a towel. I’d hate to go around dripping wet the rest of the day.”
There was a rustling as Mel opened her tote bag and pulled something out. “Here. But I think as a swimmer, you would be used to walking around wet.” He grabbed the blue towel that she held out, cursorily wiped his chest and arms, and wrapped it around his waist before he turned around. She was standing perilously close to him, her mouth upturned in a laugh, “I wouldn’t mind.”
“I hope you still have my clothes too.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I haven’t burned them.” She handed him his glasses which he quickly put on to bring everything back into focus.
The pond water at the shore frothed as the swimmers finished their lap. Some of them made noises about the temperature of the water. The short man who started the race with his gun announced the winner, another man who was heavily muscled from construction work. The short man also announced that it was the fourth year in a row that he had won. As a prize, he pulled out a necklace of gray beads from his pocket and looped it around the winner’s neck. Mel and Stuart watched the announcement, silent and frozen, attention fixed to that necklace.
“Perhaps Mad Dog won something like that,” she mused.
Before he could reply with a similar sentiment, a commotion some ways away diverted his attention from the winner of the swimming competition. The Bingo Club had finally swarmed over to the edge of Derry Pond. Laurent, the painter, had just gotten up from the water. Spying the old ladies, he let out a yelp before hurrying away in the opposite direction. The rest of the finishing swimmers, spooked from the way the drunken ladies were giving them suggestive leers and wolf whistles whether they were attractive, dumpy, or even halfway decent followed suit. Only the old man, Willard Kingston, another guest at the Townsend House bed and breakfast stood fast at the Derry Pond bank, proudly showing off his assets in his bright orange swimming trunks.
Some of the bingo ladies stuck out their tongues at him.
Stuart grabbed Mel’s upper arm and steered her away from the bank, toward the more benign looking group surrounding the winning swimmer.
“Ow! What the crap do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to save my hide.”
“You don’t have to be so obvious about it.”
“Well, it’s not like I’m seeing anyone else be subtle either.” He let go of her arm. “Come on, let’s congratulate the winner and maybe I can get some quotes that I might be able to use.”
They eventually made their way toward the small group of people crowding the winner—a tall muscled man with brownish yellow hair and a face of granite—giving him handshakes, high fives, and slaps on the back. A slim woman with a tiny mini-skirt had wrapped her arm possessively over the winner’s torso. She looked familiar, he thought.
“Isn’t that the woman from the car rental place?” the photographer mused, her voice only carrying so far to his ear.
“Only two more competitions to go,” said someone to the winner who they soon found out was named Johnny. “You think you’ll be up to them?”
The man shrugged. “Sure, although I’ll say there’s some pretty tough competition this year.” His gaze went to Stuart. “That was pretty good that you came in third. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought you were just pacing yourself so you wouldn’t get ahead.”
“But you won,” Stuart said simply. He held out his hand to shake Johnny’s hand. “Fair and square, I’d say. I’m just a recreational swimmer. And I don’t think I’ll be doing any of the other competitions.”
“Really.” Johnny didn’t sound convinced.
“I’m just an out of town reporter writing a story about the Harvest Festival. So how does it feel to be the four-time winner of the swimming competition?”
“I guess the competing for me never really gets old. I’m imagining that the competitions next year will feel just as exciting. Is that right, Heather?”
The woman in the mini-skirt at his side just purred. “It’s always exciting.”
“Just one question about the prize, though,” said Stuart. “Is it traditional for you to receive a necklace? It seems, well, quite unusual. One would expect a medal, a ribbon, or some sort of trophy.”
“This thing?” The winner tugged on the gray beads around his neck absently. “It’s traditional. They give a strand of horn silver beads to the winner of each competition as well as to the Horned King who’s crowned at the end of the festival. I have no idea how it started but I’m sure there was a reason. I don’t think anyone really remembers why any more. Perhaps you could ask some of the older folks.”
“That’s interesting,” replied the reporter. “Are those beads specially made for the festival or are they fairly commonplace around here and that they only take on a special significance at the Harvest Festival?” He noticed that the winner’s girlfriend slightly narrowed her eyes at his question.
“They’re only given out during the festival,” Johnny said blithely. “They’re made especially for the festival too. Lloyd Fenster, the guy who helps fund this whole thing, specially orders them from some guy down south who makes jewelry for a living.”
