Light the Hidden Things (8 page)

Usually he slept through the dreams. If they woke him, however, he never allowed himself to sleep further that night. If he dropped off too soon after a red dream, memories of Patricia always followed. The memories weren’t real dreams. They were abrupt visions that licked across his mind like grass fires and filled his soul with longing. It was the only time he ever admitted being lonely.

The red dreams were preferable. They were evil, an enemy to confront and be crushed. Sometimes they came with real memories. Young men - good men - destroyed. They screamed. Some cried, not always from physical pain. They mourned their own loss. Companions could only mourn with them, for them. And for themselves.

War took too much. A man couldn't let it destroy him once the fighting stopped. It tried. It insinuated itself into the mind. Beating it was as necessary, as ordinary, as taking cover from small arms fire.

Crow listened to the doctors, the nurses, the experts. He admitted nothing, allowed them to see nothing. They knew more than he ever would. What they didn't know was him. He was his problem. No one forced him into the furnace that forged him. He did what he did because it was right. It was his responsibility to get past the leftover damage.

He'd looked at his own torn flesh, watched his blood cascade onto dirt that lapped it up as carelessly as it absorbed rainwater. Later, he told himself was healed. What happened had nothing to do with the thing trying to eat his mind. Bandages and medicines turned wounds into scars, straightforward reminders of injury. There wasn't any medicine for the red dreams. There was resolve.

And he'd avoided the incoherent memory flashes of Patricia. In the semi-dreams, most of the time she seemed sad, or worried. When she did smile, it was the one he remembered most clearly from the goodbyes; courage hiding fear. Not once, not ever, did it occur to him her fear might be for herself as well as for him.

That shamed him. Now. Too late.

More and more now she appeared further away. Still loving, still wanting to help, too often achingly unhappy.

It wasn't the way she'd been when she was by his side. She supported. She voiced her concerns - she could make her point with a vigor that rocked the house - but when he chose a course, she'd set the sails and work to make it happen. This new, sorrowful image was disturbing.

Love was still there.

Crow shook himself as if throwing off rainwater. A quick tremor in his stomach warned him to stop thinking about all of it. Aloud he said, "Fool. Poking a stick through a fence at a bad dog. Just move on." The sound of his voice was affirming. What happened wasn't the real issue. What counted was that he'd beaten it again. He'd been robbed of a little rest; he'd handle that. He always did. He was winning.

A look at his watch told him he should be alert for the Pastor's arrival.

Morning had actually started for Crow shortly after three. Busying himself organizing fishing equipment that was already perfect kept him from nodding off.

Oddly, when he was working on the tackle was the only time he caught himself remembering his old smoking habit. The near-mystic routine of the addiction had held him as tightly as the nicotine. It started with removing the crinkling cellophane of the fresh pack, then rapping the bottom on a hard surface to properly tamp the tobacco in those white tubes. Next came tearing a neat square opening in the top (he’d been a true-blue old-fashioned Camels man, soft pack). Only then did a smoker strike the pack against a finger. The exact angle was important; the impact must drive a single cigarette (at most, two) forward. Of course, the selected cigarette had to be tapped, as well. Lighting took real dexterity. The match (lighters were acceptable, but vaguely effete) was held pointing inward between the first and second fingers so that, when struck, it was immediately cupped in both hands. A real smoker could stand on the bow of a ship breasting a gale and light up on the first try.

Crow marveled at how hard he’d worked to destroy himself. He threw back his shoulders and stretched, glancing down at Major. The dog dozed, pressed against his master so any movement would wake him. That precaution overlooked his own twitches and noises. Crow assumed he was running and playing. He smiled to himself, wondering if dogs comprehended envy.

He'd arrived at his meeting site early enough to see the restaurant crew arrive. Not far behind were the commuters ready for their start-up coffee and breakfast.

After them came the early-riser cronies. Crow enjoyed how they ambled, plainly men who now let time serve them, rather than the reverse. They were older, familiar enough with each other to recognize a friend’s stride a block away and wave greetings. Jackets and sweaters were wrinkled and comfortable, a match for the lined, tested faces. Hats were universal - mostly baseball caps - and universally disreputable.

Crow knew that once inside each would pull up his chair at his place at his table and give the waitress his regular order. She’d call them all "Hon," or Doll." They knew some basic facts about her. She knew more about them than some of their wives.

Outsiders hardly touched their fellowship, very rarely penetrated it. In a sense, Crow knew them all. He’d had his coffee and the breakfast special in more places like Martha’s than he could count. The cronies talked about everything and argued about all of it. Crow considered it a point of honor to never eavesdrop. Still, it was hard to avoid some of the group’s stronger feelings or louder punch lines.

Sometimes he’d seen a group break up leaving a lone man behind. With the others gone, the one left would sag. Eyes that sparkled a few minutes earlier would burn out. The waitress would almost always come by and chat. The gratitude in the man's smile could bruise your heart.

Spotting Pastor Richard’s approach, Crow leaned out the lowered window and waved. The action woke Major. He stood, looked out, and wagged his tail furiously. Crow lowered the window on Major's side. Pastor Richards came there and scratched behind Major’s ear. The dog lunged and tried to lick off his new friend’s after-shave. Pastor Richards dodged, chuckling. He said, “Morning, Crow. Friendly fellow, this one. What’s his name?”

Crow told him and Pastor Richards laughed. Crow said, “He’s usually friendly, but he’s really taken to you.”

The Pastor winked. “Common ground. Animals and religious have an understanding. Look at St. Francis.”

“You’re Protestant. Didn’t think you’d have much to do with saints.”

“You some kind of theologian? A good man’s a good man. St. Francis or Frankie DeAssisi, it’s all the same.”

“Just surprised me, is all.”

“Secret of being a good preacher. If you can’t dazzle them with discourse, mesmerize ‘em with malarkey.”

“You cleaned that up a lot.”

For the second time, Crow saw the Pastor glow with innocence. “Really? I was sure that’s how it went.”

Crow snorted. “I’m beginning to get a handle on you. You’re one of those sneaky preachers. Bring a man to Jesus talking forgiveness, good times, milk and honey. Forget to mention the fire and brimstone. Tricky.”

Pastor Richard’s bland sincerity never wavered. “Whatever it takes, son. A properly cast fly or a good sermon: I bring my catch to the net any way I can. So are we ready to stalk the wary steelhead in his watery lair? Just leave your truck. We have cops but they won’t pay any attention to how long you’re parked unless the machine actually rusts so badly it stains the street.”

“We can just walk? To good fishing?”

“Yep. People come from everywhere to fish the Fortymile. They figure when they get here they ought to suffer some to make it worthwhile. The local guides oblige them, take them way upriver.”

Shrugging into his vest, Crow gathered his gear, rolled up the windows, and got out. Major shivered and whined eagerness until Crow commanded, “Come.”

The dog leaped to the ground and coursed ahead of them, ecstatic. Within a few hundred yards and across two barbed wire fences they were in forest.

An hour later, Major was still romping in all directions. Crow was less vigorous.

Peculiarities of terrain and haphazard boundary-setting in the past created an unusual upper Fortymile valley. The eastern side of the river scoured very rugged ground - sheer vertical cliffs in some places - throughout its length. The western bank was also too steep and irregular for any sort of serious farming for quite a distance. Beyond that, however, ancient lava flow had formed a relatively flat valley floor. Timber companies had clearcut that long ago. Soon after, however, a great swath became protected and the earliest replacement growth was approaching its first century.

It was a place that would normally bring out Crow’s best. At that moment, however, his scowl spoke of something less than delight.

Pastor Richards scaled rock walls like a goat late for lunch. Now he was crossing a fallen log over a deep draw and its rushing stream without altering manner or pace. Crow exercised considerably more deliberation. Major considered the log briefly, raced down the slope, jumped the creek, and scrambled up the far side. He sat and waited for Crow.

Muttering about muscle-headed beasts with no loyalty or appreciation, Crow marched on.

Eventually the Pastor led the way down a nearly invisible trail to a sandy bank. Stopping, holding up a hand, he grinned at Crow and whispered, “Hear them? The fish, talking? They’re telling each other how easily they’ll frustrate us. Little do the poor things suspect the skill, the artistry, of their adversaries.”

Setting down his gear, Crow checked his watch. For an hour and a half they’d held to a near-running pace. He calculated at least three miles, probably more, all of it wicked terrain.

Pastor Richards said, “Sorry it took so long. Not as agile as I used to be. Still, it gave you time to appreciate what we’ve got. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Lovely.” Crow squelched most of the sarcasm in the answer.

“It’s an old preacher’s cliché, I know, but I always feel closer to God in a place like this.”

Under his breath, Crow muttered, “If God were anywhere in these woods today, you’d have run over Him, you old race horse.”

“Beg pardon? Couldn’t quite hear that.”

“Just thinking out loud. How old are you?”

“Seventy-two. Sometimes it startles me. Been here more than forty years. Wasn’t quite thirty when I got here.”

Crow said, “If you don’t mind me saying, that seems pretty young to hole up in a place like Lupine.”

“Look around, son. Name a better place.”

“Country’s full of nice places. I can understand why you came here. Not sure I understand why you stayed.”

Whatever the expression was that touched the Pastor Richard’s features, it came and went far too quickly for Crow to identify. He quickly changed the subject. “Did those talking fish say what they were looking for? I thought this might work.” He held out a small pink and white concoction, all bristles and wings. “Is a number two all right?”

For the next few minutes, pulling on waders and inspecting knots while they talked, the two men discussed the finer points of outwitting a creature with a brain the size of buckshot. They were clearly unaware of any irony. In the end, Pastor Richards provided Crow a personally designed fly, another bit of bristly pink and white up front that trailed into a pink fan at the rear. Thin metallic threads added glitter to the fan part. The Pastor said, "It's a dry fly. A little chancy in these waters, but worth a try just for the excitement of seeing a coho rise up and smite it."

They parted company then, the Pastor directing Crow upstream to a point that offered access to two deep pools. Beyond that, near the opposite shore, a jumble of large boulders rose out of the water. The Pastor pointed it out. "That rock garden there? I pulled a good one out of there."

Crow liked the look of those rocks. Casting among them without getting snagged would be tricky. Downstream of each would be a holding eddy where fish could lurk, conserving energy while waiting for something interesting to drift past. Upstream, the pressure wave could be just as productive, if a bit more demanding. The real mystery was why they struck at all; they didn't feed after entering fresh water. Crow always figured they were just mad at the world. All that hard work to get upstream, a few minutes to spawn, then keel over and die - plenty of reason to make them cranky. He mumbled to himself; "Ours not to reason why..."

Major scampered along with his master, whining anxiety when Crow entered the water. For a while he paced, finally settling, anxiously alert.

An hour later Pastor Richards whooped. “Fish on! Did I tell you? Deadliest bug on the river. Look at that run!”

The hooked fish fought. It raced upstream to still water under a cutbank and stopped, playing dead. When Pastor Richards reeled in slack, it sped into action again, dashing back and forth in unpredictable bursts. Suddenly it was off downstream. Like a telltale pointing finger, the line hissed through the water.

The action transfixed Crow. He’d seen it or participated in it hundreds of times, but the battle never failed to fascinate him.

Anticlimactically, Pastor Richards finally netted his catch, a silvery force of at least eight pounds. It took him only seconds to extract the hook and release it. He grinned upstream at Crow as he stepped onto dry land. “Your turn. Remember: ‘But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.’”