DISCLAIMER: JERICHO is copyright © by Junction Productions and CBS/Paramount productions, 2006-7. All rights to the characters in JERICHO belongs to the above. This is not meant to infringe upon rights held by others than myself. Comments are welcome.
PASSING THE TORCH
Night at the lake is always quiet. The silence is rarely disturbed by anything other than the hum of insects, or the deep-throated croak of bullfrogs. Perhaps there is the occasional splash of a wide-mouthed bass as it makes a daring leap for a bug too close to the surface. In late evening, a mist rises over the water, drifting wraith-like amidst willows whose branches trail in the water. Tonight, a pale sliver of moon hangs low on the horizon, the stars mostly hidden behind clouds which will mean rain before dawn. The air is heavy with moisture, redolent with the nearby marshland. Fireflies play hide 'n' seek amongst the cattails. Spring is come, and with it the scent of freshly-plowed earth and wild flowers in bloom.
There is stillness here, and few reminders of a world gone mad.
The old dock stretches thirty-feet out over the lake. Wooden planks are silvery-gray from prolonged exposure to the elements. It is warped to a constant tilt, perhaps in protest of the extreme heat and cold, drought and flood it has seen. Heavy boards strain against nails wedding them to pilings driven deep into the lake-bottom. The wood has been smoothed by generations of denim-clad butts and the bare feet of children who escape chores to fish, or leap with a Tarzan yell into the water. When they are older, they come here to romance a favorite girl, or drink beer with their buddies. Leaves in the trees echo their voices, sounding like lacy gossips whispering what they have witnessed as the water laps gently at the pilings.
It is a serene place. It invites rest for the weary, solace for the heartsick, and peace for the troubled.
A solitary figure sits on the old dock, his features painted ghostly pale by the moonlight. A black suit blends with the shadows, making his face appear even more pallid by contrast. Feet shod in polished leather dangle only inches above the water. A black tie lies loose around the collar of his pristine white shirt. Oddly formal attire for dock-sitting in the middle of the night. He's not powerfully built, yet there is an aura of subtle strength about him. Not a young man, age has whitened and thinned his hair, lending him a degree of dignity. Lines etched on his face are silent witnesses to what he has seen, what he has done. If age is bestows wisdom, he learned the most when life taught him bitter lessons. His eyes stare at the dark water through wire-rimmed spectacles, watching skeletal fingers of mist swirl and eddy around the dock. He sees images there—people he's known, places he's been. A life tempered by joy and sorrow lived to the fullest.
A battle-scarred hand lifts a thick, Cuban cigar to his lips. A thin stream of smoke curls upwards, mingling with the rising mist. At his side is an unopened bottle of single-malt Scotch aged to the moment of perfection. There is anticipation in eyes touched by a hint of mischief, like a child waking to find it's Christmas morning. He shifts now and again for comfort, obvious restlessness challenging years of hard-won patience. He perseveres. Time passes. He is alone. Shoulders slump, as if bowing beneath a weight grown heavier with each moment. His expression turns solemn, solitude leeching away expectation. Minutes crawl. There are small movements; a flick of ash, a shift of weight, a rub of his nose, an occasional sideways glance. He makes no attempt to stand, or to leave the dock. Mist thickens, shrouding the lake, softening the hard edges of the world. Trees and rocks are vague shapes without substance. No notice is taken when the sounds of life around him fade into silence as the world slips into slumber.
It is not a wasted vigil. The one for whom he waits comes at last, presence betrayed only by faint footsteps in the mist. The old man's head lifts, though doesn't turn toward the new arrival. He knows he's not alone by a subtle movement of the wood beneath him, the faint protest of boards bearing unexpected weight. Shoulders straighten, as if finally freed from that heavy burden. A wily grin as his son settles beside him on the dock.
"Took you long enough."
His voice sounds almost rusty, though it was not always so. It was made that way by years spent in smoky rooms, political shouting matches, and good whiskey. The tone is jovial, any sign of solemnity forgotten. The bottle is lifted, the cap removed. A chuckle. The Scotch is held out, an invitation to begin this midnight celebration. There is steadiness in his hand, and confidence in his demeanor.
"Thought I was gonna have t'drink this alone."
His son is not so confident. He hesitates, hand lifting, pausing in midair.
"Go on. I've waited long enough to share this bottle with you."
A moment passes, then an acquiescent nod. Johnston is the younger by many years, but he is no youth. His lined face is pale and haggard in the moonlight. Uncertainty is written in his solemn expression. His shoulders sag, as if he has found the weight cast off by his father. The bottle is accepted. The obligatory swig is taken. The bottle is returned in silence.
A fish jumps somewhere out on the vast, dark lake, his watery landing shattering the stillness. Mist thickens, engulfing the dock, turning the men into shadowy, indistinct figures. Father and son stare into the gathering gloom, watching images ebb and flow in front of their eyes. Some visions bring comfort—family, friends, good times. Others are the material of nightmares—war, hate, betrayal, death. For Johnston, there is regret for poor choices, and for decisions based on mistrust. Regret for words said in anger that can never be unsaid, and for things not said until it was nearly too late. The bottle passes between them, once, twice, three times moer, bringing to them some small comfort.
A pause. A swig of Scotch. A cough. Whiskey burn in the throat. Wry humor on the older man's face, and a twinkle in his eyes.
"Cut it kind of close there, didn't you, Johnston."
A statement, not a question. Johnston casts an almost furtive glance at his father. The Scotch changes hands once more. He looks almost sheepish, like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. Johnston says nothing, merely nods as he takes a drink, passing the bottle back.
"Hell of a way to pass the torch, son. Stop worrying. We'll save him a place."
Time passes. Mist eventually obscures the old dock and the men on it disappear within. The faint scent of cigar smoke and whiskey lingers on the air. As night follows day, and spring follows winter, so do sons follow fathers. The wheel turns, and the rest is silence.