Two Halves of the Lake

Gaston rented boats at the north end of Lake Orrin. His hut was small and blue. It had a sign, a rack of oars, and six old boats.

Ivo rented boats at the south end. His hut was green. His sign was twice as big as Gaston's.

Every morning, the two men stood on their jetties. They called to the visitors on the path.

"Cheap boats! Two coins an hour!" shouted Gaston.

"Dry seats! Strong oars! Come south!" shouted Ivo.

They did this for eleven summers. They never talked about why. Neither man wanted to be the first to stop.

On a quiet Monday, Gaston turned over his oldest boat. He wanted to clean it. A loose board moved under his hand. Behind it lay a folded piece of paper. He opened it with care.

It was only half a page. The edge was straight, as if someone cut it. The paper was yellow and soft, like old cloth. Brown handwriting covered it, but every line stopped halfway.

Gaston read the first line aloud. "Under the water sleeps…" The line ended there. He read the next. "Tie your boat beside the…" Again, nothing more.

The paper grew warm in his hand. Then it pulled. It pulled toward the south, like a dog on a lead. Gaston took one step, and the paper pulled harder.

"This is silly," Gaston said to the empty hut. He followed it anyway.

He walked along the shore path for a long time. The paper led him straight to the green hut. Ivo stood on his jetty. He held a piece of paper with both hands. It pulled toward the north like a kite.

"Did you put that in my boat?" Ivo asked.

"No," said Gaston. "I found mine under a board. Look at yours."

"I found mine in the roof of my hut," said Ivo.

Ivo held out his piece. Gaston held out his. The two torn edges jumped together with a soft click. The page became whole. It glowed gold for a moment, and then it lay still.

Both men bent over it. Now the lines made sense.

Ivo read slowly. "Under the water sleeps a bell. Tie your boat beside the boat of your neighbour at sunset. Row in step. Speak kindly. Then the bell will rise, and it will belong to both."

"Both what?" asked Gaston.

"Both boatmen," said Ivo. "Both huts, I think."

Gaston tried to take his half back. The paper did not come apart. It held together like glue. He pulled harder, and Ivo pulled the other way. The page did not tear. It only got warmer.

"It wants us together," Ivo said. "That is clear."

"I do not need a bell," said Gaston. "But I will not let you have it alone."

"Same to you," said Ivo.

They agreed to try at sunset. Each man was sure the bell was for him. Each man planned to do it his own way.

At sunset, the lake was flat and gold. The two men met in the middle of the water. Gaston brought his best boat. Ivo brought his best boat. They tied them side by side with a short rope.

"We use my oars," said Gaston. "They are newer."

"We use mine," said Ivo. "They are longer."

"Mine!"

"Mine!"

In the end, each man took his own oars. Gaston rowed toward the north. Ivo rowed toward the south. The rope pulled tight, and the boats began to spin.

They turned in a slow circle. The water under them went dark and still. No bell rang, and no light shone. The lake stayed silent.

"Stop!" cried Ivo. "You are making us spin!"

"You are the one making us spin," said Gaston.

They stopped rowing at the same moment. The boats turned a little more and then lay quiet. The sky above them went pink. The page, in Gaston's pocket, felt cool.

For a while, neither man spoke. Gaston looked at his hands. Ivo looked at the water.

"I made my sign bigger on purpose," Ivo said at last. "In the first summer, you had more visitors. I was afraid of losing my hut."

Gaston laughed, but not in an unkind way. "I shouted first on purpose, too," he said. "I was afraid of the same thing."

"Eleven summers," said Ivo. "For nothing."

"Not for nothing," said Gaston. "We both learned to shout very well."

Ivo smiled. He took one oar from his own boat and held it out. "Take this one," he said. "Give me one of yours." Gaston took it. He gave Ivo one of his own oars.

"One stroke on the left, one on the right," said Ivo. "Together?"

"Together," said Gaston. "I will count."

"Count slowly," said Ivo. "My arms are not young."

Gaston counted. "One. Two. One. Two."

They pulled in step. The boats moved forward in a straight line. The rope hung loose between them. The water began to shine. First there was one small light under the surface. Then there were ten. Then there were hundreds, like a town of lanterns far below.

"Keep rowing," Ivo whispered.

"I am," Gaston whispered back. "Do not stop."

The lights gathered in one place, right between the two boats. The water rose, and something broke the surface. It was a small bell made of green and gold metal. A chain of water-weed hung from it. It floated on the lake as if it weighed nothing.

Gaston lifted it into his boat. Ivo leaned across the rope to look. Four short words ran along the side of the bell. They said, "For those who share."

"It is not very big," Ivo said.

"It is exactly big enough," said Gaston.

They rowed back together in the evening. The bell sat between the boats. On the jetty, they argued a little about where to hang it. At last they chose a post on the shore path. It stood just as near to one hut as to the other.

The next morning, no one shouted from either jetty. Visitors came down the path and stopped, puzzled. They looked at the two men, who stood side by side.

Gaston reached out and touched the bell with one finger.

The bell rang once across the water, and both huts heard it.