The Knife by JD Clapp

In the glow of a neon Alaskan Ale sign, a taxidermized moose vacantly watching the drunks, Harper took his knife from his belt and rested it by his whisky on the bar top. Despite the ache in his gnarled fingers, he enjoyed its familiar heft as he gripped the scales. He took a sip of his third whisky. 

He revisited the night he traded for the knife in a similar costal town, in a similar fishermen’s bar. That was over five decades ago. He remembered the older man, an indigenous artisan he had never met before, sat next to him, and struck up a conversation. The man told Harper her had forged the knife from tool steel, then used it several years. He asked to see Harper’ new Buck knife. Harper remembered their exchange:

“Do you want to trade?” the man asked.

“This is a brand-new Buck knife, why would I trade you for that old thing?” 

“My knife has stories, yours does not,” the man said.

“What kinda stories?”

“I stuck a man who tried to shoot me in a bar fight with it. I finished off a bull moose with it…”

“Those are some big stories, partner,” Harper said.

Several drinks and yarns later they made the trade; Harper never regretted making it.

##

He looked down and considered the knife carefully—something he hadn’t done in years. With a full tang butcher blade, the point and front spine were just thin enough for fileting salmon, but heavy enough to process big game. Just before the handle, the spine was scarred from lifting beer caps and throwing sparks off a ferrocerium rod. He fingered choil, then the naturally textured moose antler skins. It was practical, and good looking. Harper noticed the wear – the blade now one-sixteenth of inch smaller than the day it was pounded into life from fire and steel. He kept it razor sharp, each pass over the honing stone taking a little of her vitality. But it still has life ahead of it. 

Harper drained his glass and motioned the barkeep, Tommy, over. 

“Hittin’ it hard tonight, Harper. You all good?”

“Yup. All good. Just a long week, that’s all.”

Tommy poured another Dickle double neat.

 Harper look down at the knife that had spent countless days strapped to his belt searching for moose, bear, and deer, always capable of the butchering and skinning tasks ahead. It had been his companion on the river’s edge, an extension of him, together making quick work of fileting salmon and trout. It had bounced thousands of miles on his truck’s dash and the chart table of his boat’s pilot house. It had stories…Harper’s stories, the man’s stories.

Harper downed his whisky. He spun the knife on the bar top and a lazy arch. It has at least another story in it.

He picked it up and put back in the oiled and patinaed leather sheath. He put two twenties on the bar, nodded at Tommy, and walked out into the cold night. 

Harper walked to his truck and light a Camel. He leaned on against the old Silverado and looked back at the bar and then to the small marina. He could make out the radar unit on his pilot house.

 Enjoying the cold, he gazed up to the single streetlight and watched the snow fall in its conical glow-- God’s showerhead. He smoked.

A year without treatment…maybe three with. No more guiding or fishing. Lots of rest. And the treatment will make you sick before you get well…That’s what the doc said. 

Harper climbed in the truck and set the knife on the dashboard in its place. He lit another Camel with his Zippo. His mind came clear.

We still have another year’s worth of stories...

He started his truck, then drove home over the frozen dirt truck trail to his cabin overlooking the bar and marina.  The knife bounced on the dash with each rut and bump, ready for whatever came next.

His work has appeared in Wrong Turn Literary, The Milk House, The Whisky Blot, and several others. His story, One Last Drop, was a finalist in the 2023 Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal, Short Story Competition.