Raft of Stars by Andrew Graff (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📕

menace in them, rising up in front of that blue sky. The knot in Fish’s stomach turned to hunger again. Fish looked back at the turtle. If it was a snapper instead of a painter, this would be easier.

Fish reached forward with the knife, pinned the turtle on its back, and placed the well-honed blade against the turtle’s belly shell. He gave it an exploratory tap. The shell felt leathery beneath the hardness of the steel, and Fish knew it would be easy enough to plunge the knife in. Bread shifted where he sat. Woodsmoke filled the air with emptiness. Fish tightened his grip on the knife, took in a deep breath—and then folded it closed and put it in his pocket.

“I ain’t doing it,” he said.

Bread coughed. “Yeah, me neither,” he said, more quickly than he probably intended. There was relief on his face.

Fish flipped the turtle onto its belly and sat back in the sunshine. He’d rather stay hungry, he decided. The turtle sat with its legs drawn inside itself, unsure if the ordeal was over.

“Go on, turtle,” said Fish, disappointment in his voice. “We ain’t gonna eat you. We ain’t gonna eat nothing.”

Fish saw disappointment in Bread’s eyes, too. Bread reached back onto the deck of the raft, fetched his Ninja Turtle. He held Donatello by the legs and poked his face down near the painter’s.

“Hey turtle turtle, you got a name?” He knocked gently on the turtle’s shell with Donatello’s plastic bō staff. The painter didn’t respond. “My name’s Donatello. You hungry too?”

Fish felt confused. He was ashamed of himself for not being able to kill the turtle and eat it, but he was proud for bearing the hunger rather than giving in to it. They’d find another way to eat.

“You want to eat some worms, turtle turtle?” asked Donatello.

Bread looked at Fish, and Fish looked at Bread. Fish knew what he was thinking. Both boys looked at the empty bean tin that still held half a dozen night crawlers. The worms were all over six inches long, real whoppers, as Bread called them.

Fish sighed. Beaver life was hard.

“Well, I ain’t eating them raw,” said Fish, and Bread agreed to stoke the fire.

Ten minutes later, the boys sat over the boiling kettle of water in the galley. The worms had died instantly, and now roiled around in the bubbles like pale white noodles.

“Wish we had some salt,” said Bread, apprehension in his eyes.

Fish’s stomach growled angrily at the sight of the boiling worms.

“I’m just worried about the flavor is all,” said Bread. “I mean, I’m gonna eat ’em, but I just don’t know about the flavor.” Bread went on and on as the worms continued to stew.

The soup wasn’t promising. The river water was tannin-stained, and the worms were bloated. The whole brew smelled like pee and river bottom. It needed something. Bread turned to rummage through his pack, drew out a white and green pouch twisted up in his fist. He unfurled it. The pouch had bright red letters—Red Man. America’s Best Chew.

“What do you think if we add some of this?” Bread asked, teasing open the pouch with his thumbs. Fish looked on uncertainly. He’d forgotten about the tobacco. The wad he’d placed in the chest pocket of his flannel had grown sticky and lint-covered. He’d dropped it in the river.

“Your grandpa eats this stuff,” Bread proclaimed, and then frowned as he lifted a pinch of it out of the bag with his fingers. “It must taste all right.” Bread dropped the shreds of black tobacco back into the pouch. He lifted the bag to his nose and smelled it. He tasted the tips of his fingers. His face brightened.

“Smells like raisins,” he said.

He passed the pouch to Fish, who smelled it. It did smell like raisins. He lifted a small piece of the tobacco to his lips, touched it with his tongue. It was sweet and then spicy in a way he couldn’t describe. He looked back at the soup they had made. A waft of steam rose from the pot and hit him in the face.

“Dump it in,” said Fish, handing it back, and Bread complied.

The boys watched the pot for another minute, stirred it with a cattail cane. While the water continued to simmer, Bread checked on the painter turtle. It remained where they’d left it, out in the sunlight near Donatello. Bread had placed half a night crawler near the opening of its shell to try to coax it out.

Satisfied that the tobacco had stewed enough, Fish removed the kettle from the coals and brought it out onto the deck of the raft. The water had turned from yellow to dark brown. The worms, too, had soaked in the darker color and looked much more wholesome for doing so. The raisin smell of tobacco came up from the steam, which was promising. Fish got two spoons from a poacher’s mess kit. The boys settled themselves on their knees near the pot. The turtle stayed in its shell.

“Well,” Fish said, “dig in.”

Fish took the first taste, slurping a spoonful of broth into his mouth. The heat of it was enough to make his stomach turn over, but not in an altogether bad way. The first thing Fish tasted was sugar, from the tobacco, no doubt, followed by a deep earthiness, not unlike the earthiness in a garden carrot or a pickled beet. After the sweetness and earthiness came the odd, spicy sensation. It filled Fish’s mouth and throat. He could feel it in his stomach. Its warmth was different from the heat of the broth.

Bread slurped in a spoonful too. The boys watched each other. Downstream, the bank of dark clouds covered the sun. Rain would come soon. But they could ignore that because they had food, and they didn’t kill a painter to get it. They were making it in the wild, on their own terms.

“Not bad!” Bread exclaimed, and dipped two more spoonfuls into his mouth. “Red Man stew!”

Fish